Will I ever hear the birds singing, I wonder,
Without wincing at the shape their song fits into in my past?
It wasn't so long ago that the morning they heralded
Was my doom, yet another fresh hell
Brought on the rays of a sun that stubbornly refused to cease rising,
Even if just for long enough to catch my breath.
That place is a thousand miles away now,
Its cruel towers nevertheless carved into me
By the light of a thousand dreaded dawns.
Still, the sinking feeling of the rising sun remains.
I'd like to think by now that the birds sing more sweetly,
That the sun now shines more with divinity than uncaring fusion--
--though both, of course, have their place.
Have I not placed myself back into the order of things,
Once again been afforded the experience of walking on four--then two--then three limbs
Just as Khepri turns to Ra turns to Atum?
Yet still, the aching past clings to the tattered folds of memory,
Pushing aside the warp and weft to admit the bite
Of the chill wind leaking through a threadbare mind.
Patch it all you like, but frostbite has already set in--
--only the warmth of dawn can save you now.