Tilting, Tilting

I watch the shadows of the morning

conjoin the flat white globe of noon,

I watch the swallows’ silhouette

weave holy wakes

above the ridges;

Tilting, tilting.

The tongues of the passing torch are here.

The swara settle in like mist

and take their sacraments.

They settle round my house, and soon,

whisper as I smoke and sing:

Living darkness, living darkness,

take your part in this.

Tilting, tilting, tilting, till you

take your part in this.

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