Vultura, Ian Spence
His feet straddle the exhausted beast beneath him,
The wind disperses the clouds like blades of green grass and the light grows dim,
The wandering child considers his existence,
He had just left the lost city without much persistence,
Why had he left?
He gazes at the mystic atmosphere that engulfs the space around,
High above an eagle screeches an echoing cry but he pays no attention,
He cannot hear for he is not willing to listen.
There was nothing for him at home,
It was only once he had lost everything that he was free,
He counted: One, two three,
Three days left to live,
Three days left to arrive,
Three days left to survive.
His hand grazes over his tattered shirt,
At last it rests across his thumping heart,
The mist surrounding him grows dense,
Three days had past and he had built no defense,
He longed to disappear,
He yearned for eternal damnation,
He could not right his wrongs,
He had no fear.
Slowly he admits defeat,
He knows what comes next – nothing,
Without a beginning he had no end.