Empathy With Tattered Cape

Satish Verma

Weep every don. 
All the translations were fake. 

The yellow peaks do not burn the 
sky, now at sunrise. 

I am forgetting myself― 
in the gathering of my foes. 

The pilgrim's path is now dirty. 
You cannot transcend the― 

dead remains of ancestry. In 
the hutment, that was the end of view. 

Nightblindness. I cannot fathom 
out the saint descending a great depth. 

From beastkinds I swim back 
to save an unborn epic.

allets's picture

Pilgrims Progress

transcending "the dead remains of ancestors". Shedding the past or reincarnating it - either way, it is very poetic. Enjoyed the depth, the wisdom - allets