Mine, ‘till the flock of tern dither
Their marching of the skies
That stretch o’er lands that wither
Until new land do rise.
Upon stillest mid-day waters,
Where throngs of fish defy
The attempt of heron’s slaughter:
I shall here rest my eyes.

When mountains fold upon themselves
In ruinous drama,
When men fierce remove with gripped helve
The four heads of Brahma
Then I shall stop, reverent;
Lie across dormant fields
Where by wings for you I have sent

Those sentiments yet sealed.
Do I have now your faithful word?
Willingness, ‘till the end;
Or must I send another bird,
Beg of you to attend?
Love, let us not be asunder –
Mine, remain healthily;
‘Till heavens contest with thunder
And fate requests of we.


Words by Sam Rye

Photo by Tayla Halfacre