coal-black birds circle the chalcedony of the sky,
looking for mercy where Gabriel would have greeted them.
And, in the conjured waves worshipping the other shore,
the shaman of secrets looks into his burnished stone,
cast down again by the gentle sword of his own death—
for the apocalyptic horses are ever neighing.
Seven years old, I see him weeping in the first light
of every disinherited dawn heaven disowns,
on the banks of the milky river by the grave bridge,
holding his heavy heart in his hand as he jumps in.
And, forever, it seems, he sinks towards oblivion,
like a saviour walking into the depths of a tear.