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Into the gloom
by Michael R. Burch

Into the gloom, beyond the point of caring, 
past fascist rows that stare and blanch and cross
and watch us always, by the sunset's flaring, 
we watch our footprints vanish. Sponge-like moss
absorbs our heavy bootheels, till the whisper
of passing from the earth, our soft refrain, 
sounds like the hoot owl's eerie lonely vesper
from distances like hers: Remain. Remain.

We cannot stay, for all our fond returning, 
although the earth sighs too: Remain. Remain.
This bridge aflame with sunset coldly burning? —
another cross, another cold domain.
I cannot think of why we came; now, leaving, 
we do not go as quickly as we should.
The sun wants nothing of our pallid grieving.
The darkness we encounter, just a wood, 

is neither good nor bad. Nor hell nor heaven
is found here in this small plot's barren ground.
The owls that "weep" are not our solemn brethren, 
not do they weep; their cry is just the sound
of something mournful to our ears, that dying
seems metaphor for death. Perhaps a mouse
would understand their ghastly ghostly crying
and think to flee, or hope they chase a grouse, 

a-tremble with the sudden realization
that life is full of talons and small cries.
Out of her corpse there spills a squalid nation
of worms and lice: which proves that nothing dies
that does not spring to life as something lesser.
O, leave her to herself! Let others guess here
what death can "mean." I do not hope to know! 
I only hope to leave, while we can go …



Overshadowed
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The brilliance of stars goes unnoticed
since the moon overshadows them every night.



So Be It
by Rahat Indori
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If we're opposed, so be it; there's more to life.
There's more to the skies than mere smoke.
When a fire breaks out, many wounds abound; 
it's not just my home in flames.
Yes, it's true that many enemies also abound, 
but they don't control life with their fists.
What comes out of my mouth, are my words alone; 
they don't speak for me, do they? 
Today's rulers will not be tomorrow's; 
We're all tenants here, not owners.
Everyone's blood irrigates Earth's soil; 
India is no one's paternal possession.



Daredevilry
by Michael R. Burch

Trees
full of possibilities
whisper of ancient mysteries—
mysteries of birth, of life and death.
Each leaf—illuminated, light as breath—
gives up clinging to the old verities, 
embraces its frailties, 
skydives …
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