The morning chirping in the garden is one voice down today
The harmony is the same to the gardener but not the birds
She’s just muted not dumb; freed from the curse of her buds
She’s not envious of her friends that weep beside her clay.
Her wings ascend higher with every flap
To a place where everything is possible
Quite quickly she becomes invisible
As she embarks on her final lap.
A home is forsaken in quest for Rest
The worms and fishes below now distasteful
Snakes feast on her eggs, but it doesn’t pound on her chest
It’s beyond her ability to focus; it’s not because she’s mindful.
The routes are quite unfamiliar but the destination certain
Nothing in her life of clay seemed to matter again
But at the gates of Rest, the books were opened
Then it mattered all that had happened.
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And so it happened that Attah had only a pen in his hands and in great fear he turned to the wall to write something. He wrote on a hard wall one airy evening, it seemed strange at first, and then something even stranger happened. He got some headway. Who would have called it headway? Itanje, the fiery goddess, appeared somewhere close to the wall where the boy stood. She looked at him sternly, for Itanje knew for sure that he was the only act of kindness that had gone out of her or the works of her hands. A witty smug filled her face as memories of her first son came to mind. But it was not her fault. She always had to do the needful.
The Masterpiece's Pen 