sup

[mcoffside47]

Everything in the world

 

[keeping]

To the whispering film of smoke, that along the river choke
the very light from the air, Lay underneath the plume,
under the condensated looming, phosphorescent,
drifting eerily – a small Nelumbo bud.
Upon the Ganges lay, and drifted, as if in the clouds uplifted,
by the Priestess’ song; spirited!
In exultation to the Dead.
Still, behind the solemn craft, lay strewn (as if by hands, caste),
a solemn train of purple Cupids, juxtaposing all this death.
Yet the umbre could not detract, from the thud; from the thunder of a thousand voices , as if through odd dialects a Gregorian chant airborne,
And so as if drifting in the notes, on intermittent light-shards float, smoke-bound, Pachamamma’s petal ‘ d boats of defiance;
(though to the Dead, they make little difference).
Plaintively our flowers rest
Along the flaming shores of the embalmbed,
Purple then black, their beauty consumed,
Smouldering Heaven, a treaty, a treasure –
The Bless’d.

 

[ABetterWay]

Wow.

That's incredible. Thank you for sharing love.

Perfect day to read that, too.

Beautiful!