The Golden Eagle
A man's life is but the crest of a wave, which descends
downhill after Time forgets him, his personal history
decays like the smoke of a flame: where did the flame
come from? ~His house stops upon the walls, and the sweet
chirpings calls him outside.
The golden eagle has been with me through my journey.
It can not walk much, and it tires after a few feet of
struggle. I have been carrying him since I can
remember, upon my shoulders, the golden eagle has
seen the world; all that I can recall in my memories, went deep
in golden eagle's heart.
The lonely walkaway is dim with shadows today. Midday
is approaching upon my garden, the flowers
are whispering the darkness of the evening.
There is light where the trees can not play hiding—
I see an intensely bright light: The golden eagle spreads his
wings, from my shoulders, to fly.