Feast Of The Fallen

By Angel Singh

Amidst the crusade's whisper, a rootless nomad,

Upon his shoulders is the Shoikago's clad.

Bearing thine son's mortus corpus,

Across dawn-lit meadows and florous.

Perceptive being of his ancestral fatality,

Hinders withering in darkened clarity.

Ravines blanketed with butchered flesh,

Wherein famine frays and feasts thresh.

The vultures under mortal skin renown,

''Bury thy weight; the dead shall bear the living down.''

The grieving father maketh known,

''He is not weight. He is my son.''

The nomad falleth thine breath ceases,

Entwined by his seed, he deceases.

His hands marked a sapling at dawn,

Timber 'neath tender dusk crafting coffin.

By Angel Singh