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