In the black forest
    ­­which existed before death
    and grows rampant among
    the transparencies of life­­
    there is no room for angels.

    From dripping branches leopards scream for blood.
    Dry serpents scale roots digging deep into decay.
    Trees swell, turomous, beneath a concealed sun.
    Arrows leap from invisible bows.
    Insects swarm, pursued by livid birds
    more silent than rainbows.
    Every step is a step into a snare;
    every blossom is a poison;
    the waters are sweet with flesh-piercing microbes.

    No room here for angels.

    Bring a gun if you come,
    a gun and a torch and a flask
    of water from some other world.
    Admire nothing; sing no praises;
    trust no companion; touch nothing.

    The black forest
    protects neither good nor evil.
    The air is thick with indifference and survival.
    We who dwell here
    ­­without mercy
    ­­without forgiveness
    walk with balanced blade, do not pray
    and imagine death and birth.

    Angels, with their innocence and songs,
    their soft caresses and softer truths,
    should seek other affinities.

    And yet we beckon,
    hoping for deliverance.


Copyright © CS Bryson, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.