FROM THE POETRY ALBUM: BELIEVERS TO THE GOLDEN RETRIEVERS
II. The Will Of Argos (tercet)
Fur crisp as the driest leaves,
the kind that are swept away
to give space for the suitor’s feet.
Eyes brittle as hail after rain,
for the shattering sky above,
just for the world to cast away.
Bones like a flame, for so
many forces to put out,
yet without a breath for it to follow.
Argos. They say it is his name,
like it is what is everything of him,
with nothing else to say.
In front of the walls of the castle,
and not elsewhere, for he has forgotten,
how to walk at all.
He had been embosomed beneath snow,
lasered by the sun’s blatant glow,
and watched all things die and grow.
Then in front of the castle gates, a sound escaped in his ear
that urged the life out of him from front to rear
—it unmasked itself with a familiar voice.
He lifted his cheek and in a gasp,
a blur bled on his brooding eyes,
that now came bustling like a butterfly.
It was a man. Or a fairytale came alive.
But everyone knew his stories of
clattered metal that struck the life of many, many lives.
He wagged his tail and flattened his ears,
his silhouette gracefully flowing near
waiting for his arms to gesture “Come here!”
Though, as the wind sank upon the marbled floor,
some silence followed, and only more came
of only this and nothing more.
The man wore a ***** tunic, like a
***** gum sealed behind a toothpick,
bristling him but not coming clean.
Their gaze met, eyes filled with blue,
the man did not show emotion,
as if he had forgotten how to.
Next to him was some swineherd,
robed from shoulder knee with some brown trousers,
his words spoken after the man first.
“To whom does that dog belong?”
“Ah…a king whose strength moves men like pawns.
Many believed him to have died a lifelong.”
Argos detected a kind of disconnection.
Eyes like honey dripped to his tongue as it read,
Gray, loose garments—a king makes no decision.
He vainly lifted his torso, paws like bedsheets,
folding to his thighs and
sawing itself back to the putrid heap.
And crooned, “Come here please…,”
thoughts banged like chains,
but the man’s eyes were unappeased.
“The hound had light for speed,
for miles you would see it chase and hunt wild horses,
envy were the wolves of its greed.
His owner, the king, maroon like the sunset,
fed him, groomed him, bathed him, kissed him
—all of these with no regret.
Then he ventured to war with men on his sleeve,
eyes bright like garnet; he vowed a victory to weave,
but the throne collected dust, the townsmen grew peeved.
Soon they raised the flag of chaos, order subdued,
the suitors plundered the castle like pigs ran loose,
and their cheekbones bled with the fury they chewed.
Now Argos, once taut, once a musical note,
now bitten off the air that pumped its throat,
without any watchful eyes keeping it close.
Some say he is the most faithful,
waiting for the king’s return—that is the will of Argos,
and perhaps everything he’s learned.”
His weary ears listened, his world calmly above those words,
That is the will of Argos and perhaps everything he’s learned,
the tone was a mix of grief and a bit of anger.
Argos shot a look at the man. Then to the swineherd.
Then they both talked, in a croak or a low whisper,
Whatever it was now—it was not heard.
Then the sun cupped them again, stroked by the heat,
It seemed they were walking again,
and never to be seen.
But the man tilted his neck to his shoulder,
and his eyes were human again. A bit of sea passed his cheeks,
like a rock opened up a sparkling river.
And he spoke to Argos, he spoke at last,
and choked on his own throat, as if
he meant for his words to come fast.
I’m sorry, my boy, for I this is the will of I,
And I have taught you faith,
yet it has controlled your life.
Rest now my boy, be still like the sky,
Now grow a pair of wings,
And teach yourself how to fly.
As the size of their figures dwindled,
Argos contemplated his final minutes, frozen and idle,
to what those words meant, and how it killed him.
Jul 5, 2025
Jul 5, 2025 at 8:58 AM UTC
FROM THE POETRY ALBUM: BELIEVERS TO THE GOLDEN RETRIEVERS
II. The Will Of Argos (tercet)
Fur crisp as the driest leaves,
the kind that are swept away
to give space for the suitor’s feet.
Eyes brittle as hail after rain,
for the shattering sky above,
just for the world to cast away.
Bones like a flame, for so
many forces to put out,
yet without a breath for it to follow.
Argos. They say it is his name,
like it is what is everything of him,
with nothing else to say.
In front of the walls of the castle,
and not elsewhere, for he has forgotten,
how to walk at all.
He had been embosomed beneath snow,
lasered by the sun’s blatant glow,
and watched all things die and grow.
Then in front of the castle gates, a sound escaped in his ear
that urged the life out of him from front to rear
—it unmasked itself with a familiar voice.
He lifted his cheek and in a gasp,
a blur bled on his brooding eyes,
that now came bustling like a butterfly.
It was a man. Or a fairytale came alive.
But everyone knew his stories of
clattered metal that struck the life of many, many lives.
He wagged his tail and flattened his ears,
his silhouette gracefully flowing near
waiting for his arms to gesture “Come here!”
Though, as the wind sank upon the marbled floor,
some silence followed, and only more came
of only this and nothing more.
The man wore a ***** tunic, like a
***** gum sealed behind a toothpick,
bristling him but not coming clean.
Their gaze met, eyes filled with blue,
the man did not show emotion,
as if he had forgotten how to.
Next to him was some swineherd,
robed from shoulder knee with some brown trousers,
his words spoken after the man first.
“To whom does that dog belong?”
“Ah…a king whose strength moves men like pawns.
Many believed him to have died a lifelong.”
Argos detected a kind of disconnection.
Eyes like honey dripped to his tongue as it read,
Gray, loose garments—a king makes no decision.
He vainly lifted his torso, paws like bedsheets,
folding to his thighs and
sawing itself back to the putrid heap.
And crooned, “Come here please…,”
thoughts banged like chains,
but the man’s eyes were unappeased.
“The hound had light for speed,
for miles you would see it chase and hunt wild horses,
envy were the wolves of its greed.
His owner, the king, maroon like the sunset,
fed him, groomed him, bathed him, kissed him
—all of these with no regret.
Then he ventured to war with men on his sleeve,
eyes bright like garnet; he vowed a victory to weave,
but the throne collected dust, the townsmen grew peeved.
Soon they raised the flag of chaos, order subdued,
the suitors plundered the castle like pigs ran loose,
and their cheekbones bled with the fury they chewed.
Now Argos, once taut, once a musical note,
now bitten off the air that pumped its throat,
without any watchful eyes keeping it close.
Some say he is the most faithful,
waiting for the king’s return—that is the will of Argos,
and perhaps everything he’s learned.”
His weary ears listened, his world calmly above those words,
That is the will of Argos and perhaps everything he’s learned,
the tone was a mix of grief and a bit of anger.
Argos shot a look at the man. Then to the swineherd.
Then they both talked, in a croak or a low whisper,
Whatever it was now—it was not heard.
Then the sun cupped them again, stroked by the heat,
It seemed they were walking again,
and never to be seen.
But the man tilted his neck to his shoulder,
and his eyes were human again. A bit of sea passed his cheeks,
like a rock opened up a sparkling river.
And he spoke to Argos, he spoke at last,
and choked on his own throat, as if
he meant for his words to come fast.
I’m sorry, my boy, for I this is the will of I,
And I have taught you faith,
yet it has controlled your life.
Rest now my boy, be still like the sky,
Now grow a pair of wings,
And teach yourself how to fly.
As the size of their figures dwindled,
Argos contemplated his final minutes, frozen and idle,
to what those words meant, and how it killed him.
