Put down that shepherd’s crook,
you with the polished air.
Stop your circling,
your blind stumbles
out of the dream.
That stick you wave
at a flock of children,
making a holy vow
that only blooms
when your tragedy peaks.
You weave your cloak from a people’s faith,
stitching sunbeams to pretty lies.
When you’re lost in ecstasy,
the desert shows you its face
and I make it into dreams,
so you can offer a rose
to the era that never saw you born.
Nothing promises you anything.
You’re past the end.
No fantasy holds you up,
no color hides you.
You don’t need a hiding cap,
you need a helmet.
Your reflection has changed,
and being different has made you
a slippery, mercury question.
Oh, child of the Boundless.
_________________________________________________
Translation Dr . Salwa Goda
