I'm translating Loren Eiseley's lament
for the ice age beasts and the condor that
has outlasted him, soaring still, yet
even these visions, of passing ice
and the beasts we lost, those beasts
we hunted to their extinction, can't
cool my desire; these other images that
rise, even when I think of blizzards
on the edge of glaciers and sabertooths
pacing outside the light of flickering
camp fires. No, I keep thinking, in
midst of all the clear, cold air flowing
past condor's wings, the thunder
of mammoth's steps, about how
I would sink my tusk into your cleft.
18.06.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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