By Sharon St Joan
Now fire licks
At the fainting feet
Of the demon-thieves,
While on the far hill
In the rain
Of spring, the rough-barked cedars
Stretch out their laughing leaves.
Hanuman, now is the time to lay waste
The cities of pain
Born on the plains of deception.
Fly through the night
With your tail that flicks
Cinders, sparks of the setting sun.
Dry up the dark
Path of the cracked, lamenting bones.
Burn up the pits of Ravana, smoldering long
Where the wan-faced, wailing meet
To cower and hide.
Hanuman, hasten at dawn, ride
On the clear ringing winds
Of Vayu, that free the cliffs and sands
From dust and choking must,
That impel the bright-winged forests
To flower
Again in the morning mists,
While only the pure song
Of the meadowlark
Sings to the musical waters
That spill
Down the granite stones
In the rainbowed ark
Of light.
Photo: Rashed-Al-Qayum / © the raqs / Wikimedia Commons / This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Rashed-Al-Qayum at English Wikipedia. This applies worldwide. / Madhabkunda Water-Fall, Maulvibazar, Bangladesh.
Written March 11, 2016.
© 2016, Sharon St Joan
March 11, 2016