An Echo

I have come to this peak to speak in anger.

Far above the land, a man may earn the attention of gods.

If I wished to simplify my grievance,

I suppose the universe was the beginning-

I cannibalize a few stars and make my blood,

I paraphrase a little.

I am disgusted by variance because it imitates the impossible:

it is a lie, wearing a face bold like the invaders that come over the sea

and leave shepherds to tend hilly stretches of rock for ten thousand dawns.

I despise this world for reasons that are mostly petty.

My rage consumes those around me but still

is almost nothing; oaks fall on windy days and on their leaves

the truth is inscribed, but the interpretation is lost

or else has been intentionally demolished.

Where then in this rubble dwells mighty works, or the fabled King of kings?

Where in these poisoned rivers are the Naiads splashing?

Nothing is fit for carrion here in the shadow of the mountain,

but do not worry your brave and circling heads, you vultures,

soon enough a meal can be made of Narcissus.