Overlooking the shore of time lies a man sent,
On a mere journey to find the heart in nothing,
With his strength and questioning mind spent,
Stopping once to take in hand a bird's injured wing.
Lost are the graces that make courtiers cry,
Gone from here the memories of soft life,
Vanishing on the crag are passions that die,
And nothing more is left of painful strife.
A tended wing to the creature with weakened faith,
Tidied blood hidden to show all stoic senses,
Amid the expanse of nature yet alone in truth,
Too long has it gone without gentle hands.
A fix and fast as said - It rises up from the dead,
Noting briefly the helper before leaving it's bed,
Flaps the wings and offers closed eyes,
Flying off in the mist without further good-byes.
The crouched figure turns to view the sea,
Wondering at the red crests of the sky,
Stretching on forever without a cause to be,
Yet solemn in it's grace as anyone high.
The rocks of the side hold tightly together,
Praying to nothing and all in final glory,
Calling out yet not making a sound in pain,
Seeing light yet unable to enter it now.
His eyes are downcast to the fiery waves,
Light shining from the dwindling sun bright,
Seeking the answer to what he craves,
Thinking - No, knowing, but fears the light.
A look back to the path he's come silently,
Then again a glance to the ocean below,
A final twist of form and he leaves it be,
Leaving a faint rose cast into the briny sea.
The bird chirps from a nearby hold at the man,
Seeing more than any uncaring human can,
Noting the poor grace of terror so shear,
Missing not the man's fallen tear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem