Widow-bird jaded, mourning low,
in the summer evening, pale with grief,
her dirge upon the wind does blow,
a sigh through boughs—so brief, so brief.
Alas! This is not what I thought life was,
A vision of the sea now lost,
A bridal song that fades to dust because
of the serpent-face behind the gloss.
Hate-song reverberation, dark, severe,
and like a dying lady, pallid, wan,
Bigotry’s victim sheds many a tear,
as the spirit of solitude drifts on.
Art thou pale for weariness?
O, death is here and death is there!
A tale of society as it is—really—less.
A lament that hangs heavy in the air.
Yet, had they recovered their liberty,
beauty’s halo still would dare to gleam,
like Prometheus unbound we rise, free
to chase the ghost of a broken dream.
O Stella, Helena, shining bright,
Another fragment sung to music,
Kiss the sky with fleeting light,
A passage lost—a fate translucent.
Dirge for the year, the hour, the breath,
An elegy on life and death.
WoPoLi 
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