Pajarita Muerto

The dead bird

Pajarita Muerto

om shanti om shanti om shanti om
your skeleton is placed lovingly in a carved wooden box
lined with shimmering red velvet
as the prayer maker sheds a splashing drop
on your lifeless skul
tenderly caressed by calloused fingers
wiped clean of the salty tear
your flesh has come and gone
your chance to beg for worms has ended
and never will your voice know song
your vacant eye socket will never see the sun rise or set again
your soul, it flutters nearby
waiting for the chance to fly
your one attempt at flight
the disaster of your demise
the nest from which you tumbled
disintegrating twig by twig
moldering bit by bit
a downy feather drifts and is caught
like a faint memory of your scent
before being lost again
on a current of a passing wind


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