Great glimmering black chariots beyond our recent grasp no more rumble across our sky. We’ve sent them to rumble over there above the wrong sands, the wrong sky.
The gleam of the swan holds the world; all sounds, all occasions, all shades, all weepings are the black swans.
Down in our street the roar still hovers near. It howls when we are told of another looming flight; their wings, like a growth, move inside us, cancerous, unbearable.
These random birds are dead! They can no longer die! No longer suffer in our days of dismay, years of dread...
If it is surprise we seek let it be a revolution, not hunkering down for the next black swan! Not skyward gaze! Stand up! Look forward! March on!
Great glimmering black chariots
beyond our recent grasp
no more rumble across our sky.
We’ve sent them to rumble over there
above the wrong sands,
the wrong sky.
The gleam of the swan
holds the world;
all sounds, all occasions,
all shades, all weepings
are the black swans.
Down in our street
the roar still hovers near.
It howls when we are told
of another looming flight;
their wings, like a growth,
move inside us,
cancerous, unbearable.
These random birds are dead!
They can no longer die!
No longer suffer in our days of dismay,
years of dread...
If it is surprise we seek let it be a revolution,
not hunkering down for the next black swan!
Not skyward gaze! Stand up!
Look forward! March on!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Dr. Omed's Tent Revival Show
Edge - The Third Culture