The advent day has come
And with it a lonesome
Fellow cloaked in black.
He trudges back
And forth; unseen by brailing sirens,
The gazing and scavenging talons.
He sways the crowd
By swelling the cloud,
Dispersing the onlookers
With the phobia of ombros.
Only the shepherd of the dead
Knows the folk lore of the serpents head.
"Ready my carriage," he says
"This soul is destined for better days.
Leave the body behind.
Let it stew with dust and sylvan kind
So seed may sprout, decay and replenish
Its androgynous abode afresh.
And I may keep a promise,
Finding solace within my grimace.
O' friend of mine;
Take a sip of cordial wine,
And rise from your pale souvenir,
Embellish your wings and climb the firmament tier.
Scour the stars, sun and moon's face
For the heaven promised beyond space.
The home of saints and martyr;
And when this path leads to a furnaced altar,
Know this as your fate
For going through the narrow gate.
A prudent soul you were not,
Always chasing the Dharmic knot.
By the power vested in me
I set your spirit free."