19. 03. 2012

Prishtina

Kosovo

The death of the Master

…and the day was playing the lyre

with the strings of the ancient wings,

From the eagle up in the sky a feather;

a golden touch felt furiously,

all souls dusting over

covering the melanin

once he was a Master and those

who later realize; it was before

the sedative was taken; or better said

a drug for pampering the animal within

then as he utters not the praising malfeasant

he remained as he was; for himself and

the pious multitude; whereas for the killer

he is a collapsed pyramid from

the top to the bottom

when the curtain falls and the light of  the day

stretches the extremities of the Liar

the masters praise not the death of illusion

nor he salutes the Lazy; completely disregards

what a Cantankerous adore as Idol; or

he simply illuminates the infra-tune

of the Calla Lily. Oh God where is the Man

that sings and salutes death thus in hush?

© Fahredin Shehu, March 2012