Let others pray for the passenger pigeon
the dodo, the whooping crane, the eskimo:
everyone must specialize
 
I will confine myself to a meditation
upon the giant tortoises
withering finally on a remote island.
 
I concentrate in subway stations,
in parks, I can’t quite see them,
they move to the peripheries of my eyes
 
but on the last day they will be there;
already the event
like a wave travelling shapes vision:
 
on the road where I stand they will materialize
plodding past me in a straggling line
awkward without water
 
their small heads pondering
from side to side, their useless armour
sadder than tanks and history,
 
in their closed gaze ocean and sunlight paralysed
lumbering up the steps, under the archways
toward the square glass altars
 
where the brittle gods are kept,
the relics of what we have destroyed,
our holy and obsolete symbols.

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Valentinita. PG Saravanan
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