Eagles

The eagles can never know

The secret of the volcanoes
When they seemingly fly carried
By the sliding winds
Over cupped peaks of mountains
With the fire of their anger inside
Smoldering in the carcass of history

The eagles doesn't understand why

The green still suckles the spring's teats
And why the scream can be an echo
And the echo can be a scream.

But the eagles can hear

The cubic rocks which roll for rolling out
Their song
And the brooklet ripples which fall
With murmuring sound

And the eagles can see

The winding forest path
Which is apparently suspended
Like hanging wall thoughts
On the slope fringe
In a rock bizarre climbing story.

poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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