When doves cry

the sky scatters tear-seeds - diamond-hard shards of stars that jewel his dark water-tomb with crystals of light. The clouds are floating feathers. Now what hand will seize this weeping dove of grief and squeeze? Whose fingers will grip the silk-white wing and wring the lily of its neck? The ringnecks wail their long lament... His Symphonie Fantastique, a sabbath night's dream - grizzled groans and moans and distant screams, shrieking strings, fading cries of the meek and weak - a tormenting dirge in his dying ears. He was all hate, fate and fear, incandescent, suspended from the gibbet of public jeer, all care cremated, with a yearning for burning. Raging ashes imprisoned in a small salt urn flung far into far-flung waves to churn the unfathomable black light depths. Wings alighting like white lightning splitting the crying sky: a choir of doves from above to transcend and ascend and soft-sing him home.