Divine Poetry - 1

BOW AND LAKE
Divine Inyang Titus

There is a bow
And there is a lake.
There is the scar
Where he lies awake.

Beneath the tangled waste
Of forgotten music,
A reminder of pain,
The piercings of Cupid.

The waters of sin
Must begin their thirsty days
Arush through my hot throat,
Wildly in search of hate.

Here, beholding a brown mirror,
With rose and scented balm,
I am dirty, without a sweat
And at peace with the uneven calm.

I am the proud teller
Of the stained and bleeding lore;
Of the vain legends,
Of him who hurts with love.

The lyre's wailings,
The harp's sharp, stinging tears;
The fingers that play them
Pluck the hurt of a million years.

I, again, am the proud singer
Of the immortal tribal song;
Sung to sharpen the very arrow
That reddens the memories I had flung.

I am settler in a desert of sad tales.
Wafter in the cluster of red clouds, there.
The one who was hurt with love,
The one whose pains are too loud to hear.

Yes. There is a bow.
But no more lake, now dead ground.
And there, the blazing scar.
Over which his watchful wings make not a sound.