After rising from your ashes, strangely,
believe me when I tell you
you’ve become
house sparrows,
your feathers
coffee and grey,
the cherubs surprised
at your very ordinariness.
You go hunting
at every opportunity.
So: Is there any difference
between phoenixes
and sparrows?
You don't fit my image
of how phoenixes
should look.
You’re risking your neck
in the grains being dried
in the street,
passing faster automobiles
even if it is not safe to do so.
You have been
struggling to get free
of your fiddly years.
When you die a natural
or violent death,
will you
carry out surviving
the challenge
to your immortal spirit
suffering periods of amnesia
as it were?
From the moment you
stepped into here your
fate was sealed.
There would seem to
be some realism in
what I rarely avow
for it contains
in any case a grain
of truth.
You’ll be breathed
new life into
from the big unknown
where the being
having an effect
on all effects
is waiting for you,
o divine phoenixes.
That time, in a place
where you can enjoy
perfect delight,
the house
of your dreams.
Feel every twinge
of subsisting.
Bear it.
It is largely ephemeral.
Listen,
real sparrows have hard,
cold eyes and
their beaks are set in
perpetual sneers.
They will live on only
well into your forever as you
bring back a piece of them
kissing the oblivious clay, into your mind.
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