Creations

Phoenix Birds have no doom

From scented snow of bloom

You thrush that serenades me daily

Would not trill out his glee so gaily,

Could he foretell his wrongful breath

Would sadly soon be stilled in death.

Yon lambs that frolic on the lea

Would scarce disport them could they see

And incarnate the joy of life,

The shadow of the butcher’s knife:

Oh Nature, with your loving ruth,

You spare them knowledge of Dark Truth.

Creation’s triumph ultimate

Where you will be intimate

To  bring the sad humanity alone,

The grimness of the grave is known,

The dusty destiny is ever unknown

the bird and beast in their elegance

Effulgent it’s all in ignorance!

Oh man, provisioning the hearse,

 with fortitude accept your curse !             

BY

WILLIAMSJI MAVELI