By John F. Buoye
Bird of many mysteries
In songs and proud sky circling.
Your feathers, soft and pampering
Nurtures the devil’s secrets
Housing shy demons at late nights.
When the sky parades itself in elegiac blindness
The call of the spirits and wild men is yours to perform.
The dark chronicles of punctured ages
Rolls perfectly through your slim and sophisticated beaks
As a minstrel to the night of many songs
Give your call to the night sky
Pierce its unending hideousness
Watch its response in bats and owls
In blood sucking and large eyes for darkness reserved
Your gliding through the still air
Slices momentary calm to shady mysteries.
In your small head
Is the response to why the hunter never returned home;
And why the search for the lost princess may forever continue.
On the shoulder of my balanced gaze
Take me violently for I have no wings
Pull me by my gaze
Lend me night visions
Show me why some kings
May at battle dance.