Spring has come to this Bay
And with it a burning –
A burning so hot
It has cooked the waves of my dreams,
Washing me upon the shores of Consciousness,
In a bubbling bath of time.
In my hands I hold bloodied shears
Over the feathered pile of wings,
Reminding me of chickens plucked in Cameroon,
Soon to be washed down by beers.
I have tried, God,
You know I have,
To fall from my knowing of You,
To plunge into this House of Matter –
A house with a great wardrobe of pressed costumes,
Waiting for bodies to adorn;
Not one of them fit for flying.
And so I’ve cut and cut
And sometimes torn,
Trying to forget Your Name.
Then just when I think
I have found my tailored suit,
Trimmed and measured by the footsteps behind,
Your Name I hear once more,
Uttered by one of Your Lovers,
And again such a fashionable garment
Becomes ruined by the sprouting of wings.
Oh, how the nights burn and burn
With its molten waves of dreams,
Cooking me just like a Cameroonian chicken.
However, I know, God, I know,
That behind the scorching heat
Of shredded wings,
Comes the cool Hand of fog.
- Janaka Stagnaro