In POETRY by Fiona RoseLeave a Comment

The black crow lay broken. The body open.
The insides of a once warm breast, spilled now,
upon tarred street, and exposed
to city dust.

And the cyclists and the tyres and the hundreds of hasty feet,
the thousand of souls that rush, that deviate their daily route,
in the hope of avoiding
that black certainty, that lays upon their way.

The black crow lay broken. The body open.
Feathers of a previous elegance, and the lightness of its flight,
sorely scattered now, in dis-array.
Surrounding an imperfectly-stilled form.

And see now see how,
from that corpse rising
a towering giant
a mixture of god and demon?

who gathers street soil,
and gathers crow blood,
into gentle cupping palms
then spits – into the hand-held mud

sealing the little mud-cake thus, with intoxicating breath
imbibing the little mud-cake thus, with a blessing or a curse

and in this sweet whispering, life, defiant, unfolds:

“Even as the cloud sitting on top of a hill does not belong to the hill,
though I seem to be associated with sorrow I am independent of it.”

About the Author
Fiona Rose

Fiona Rose

Fiona Rose, born in South Africa, is married and has two beautiful girls. She now lives in Amsterdam. In her words: Drawing inspiration from the countless courageous, the selfless of our world, I work and practice in art and yoga with a sense of gratitude for the rich lessons that life offers. Her website is Yoga without Borders. Other LEVEKUNST articles by the same author.

& Spirit by Petra from Österreich

Share this Post

Leave a Comment