The moorhen

 

The day coming to an end,

The sun with its consolatory light on the sand,

A moorhen cackles and croaks

as if mired in the swamps of pain,

And I stand there

vulnerable and taciturn,

The shadows of grief on my face,

The moth-eaten memories

searing the soul,

Was it just flaming desire

coming as real or unreal love?

Bathed in pain and grief,

In confusion and boundless need of love,

in clamor and dissonance

I create the mists of enchantment,

And in appeasement of unworthy memories,

I try to inhale smell from paper flowers.

 

The moorhen cackles as if

with vilest insults and provocations,

I know there is silence

Hidden in its noise,—

the maternal poise

to protect its nest,

Then it stops and comes at rest,

Maybe it feels that

it's someone drenched in the rain

of pain,

With compassion and self-assurance in its eyes

it gives a last cackle and sighs.