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IX. Omen

My path – a faded crow now – thrones my head

and I hate autumn’s big, colorful death

and I fear the strutting-peacock life

I look back onto – posing, feather-spread:

denying beauty, like a conniving icon

that loves itself, gazes, and slaps its face;

I’m a dark-walker on my chessboard fate:

someone else moves me, till I reach the box;

I dreamed a dragon flying in azure sky –

and a lamb-cloud’s blood fell into the Jordan.

My troubled soul’s on fire, unfathoming,

(like a person who never changes:

hates terribly, and dreams with fear)

while my heart worships its muse once again.