Into the Gloom

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 …