Weeping Shaman

Palms over silent deserts
Wistful lillies sleeping by the river
Where the winter prays
For its own death, so spring
Could bloom from its ashes.

A man, like a shaman, or a healer
Is kneeling in this tropical space.
The wasps pick up his tears
Before they are taken by the sun
And build with them, a honeycomb
Of twenty four little dwellings.

A macaw swoops down and settles
On his shoulders, its claws caressing
Him like the comforting hug of an old friend.
On his shoulders the macaw sways
Like a fishing boat upon a storm;
The man writhes to and fro
In gentle agony that claims his mind.

The waterfall flows serenely,
No Eternity could stop it.
The high tree tops are an orchestra
Of barritone birds and tenor monkeys
With the peeping rays of sunlight
Orchestrating them like a conductor.

Hours drag on, night arrives
Bringing a soft rain of infinite dances.
He is still there, weeping, blind.
The wasps retreat to the horizon.
The macaw withdraws to the clouds.
This lush universe foregoes
All its sympathy, for the weeping shaman.

Indulging in sorrow and see-through pain
He missed out on the paradise around him.
Now all that remains is the quiet night,
With all the regret he unwittingly foretold.