By Pavel Chichikov
But we were mute and helpless there to ask –
A cursed inhibition held our tongues –
To question why his blood was such a treasure
As if a lock had clamped about our lungs
Or why his leg was crippled, or his name
Or why he gave the little azure squill
To Robin – all of this remained unasked
As if a force had conquered both our wills
But Robin held his hand against his chest,
Pressed the azure flower, then he asked:
‘But tell me where my sister is. I doubt
If you can help me now – our time is running out.'
The wounded man seemed saddened, and he sighed:
“I see that grief will never be denied –
It must be spent while humans are corrupt
Until the trove of sorrow is used up,
So here we are.' He bent down toward the stream
And concentrated, then thrust in his hands
And hefted out a fish that wriggled so
It almost leapt away, but fell on land
And lashed its tail, and doubled up its sides.
‘This is how you'll know where Flora hides,'
He said to Robin,' Then with one swift stroke
He twisted it until the backbone broke
And thumbed against the grain – the silver scales
Flew away and scattered on the shore,
Then he held it downward by the tail
And silver from its mouth began to pour
‘Here,' he said, ‘ for information pay
Each one whom you meet who can inform
You where your Flora went and where she stayed
Until to stay in hiding she moved on'
Robin knelt and gathered up the coins
While I stood watching, frightened and aghast.
‘Spend them where you must, and spend them fast
To purchase both the future and the past.'
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Twenty-Two will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
