Songbird hunters

 

Autumn mist on a solitary trail,

A path leading into the woods,

Leaves dancing on your head,

The steps tuned to the rustling

like a child playing with fallen leaves,

Mother nature planting a sapling of silence

in the soil of solitude,

Joy melting from heaven

and falling on earth with each leaf-drop.

 

Here I walk,

Running away from the chained,

suffocating loneliness of a crowded bazaar,

Rushing and rustling into the

wild and free loneliness of this forest,

Crossing the intersection of bliss and torture

to enter the free domains of the former,

Exiting the shimmering and turbulent

zone of the latter.

 

But there are shadows here as well,

Here, where language is love and beauty,

Even here, the beautiful colors

and the songs of the songbirds

are chased by the curly tentacles

of the songbird hunter,--

the merchants of memories

who trap love and beauty

for worldly gain:

security, fear and convenience,

They lay the mist-net

to catch the present

in the invisible threads of the past.