And We Call It Death


by Pavel Chichikov

He rides out through the rainy doorway –

Slide the hooves and clatter on the stone floor

Out of life itself, through cords of rain

Hemlock throws dense shade where he goes

And the weeds are frost-bitten

Their hollow straw-stems break and fail downward

One silver cord, thick, unrainlike falls

From a cloud or above all clouds

From space, or heaven, or above all heavens

And if he grasped this cord he would rise up

Would be lifted, would be saved

But the cord is silver rain

The horse is frantic, rears and prances

Ramps and stamps its feet

On the hollow hemlock drum

The horse of the flesh falls back

And the man on the horse is gone

And we call it death

(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may also visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.)

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