CONSOLING VOICE AT MY BELOVED'S BURIAL Poem by Tomas Lieske

I am the compass of the migratory bird.

I am the shape of the world, the coastline
the currents and the winds, the charge
between the poles. I am the light of the stars
the rise of the sun, the fullness
of the moon, the dome that everybody
has to cross while beating their wings.
I am the mathematics calculating
the precise angle, the dynamics that control
both momentum and streamline, the geographer
who recognises every bend.

Do not take heed of the fires, the plumes of smoke
the revolts, the banjirs and the siltstone.
Avoid the toxic waste dump, distrust the temptation
of the wasteland, see the fields, how full
they are and count the sheaves. Play deaf
to the know-it-alls, the demagogues
the discontented, the church emissaries, the announcers,
abhor the clairvoyants.

But follow the needle of existence and trust in
the horizon that will unfold.