How high you have flown, you once tatter-feathered
Raptor of the high hills?
How many of the young have you made to pass
Between your slender silken talons?
With your razor eyes, none of the choice meat
Of innocence escaped and willing did they
Partake of your concealed kisses.
Now you are one among the swans, pink in delicate
Plumage, calm in the gentle unfurling of pink,
Purposeful wings. You laugh with the swans
Thinking that you are one of them; the sight
Of young hares at play seem but memories
Of a time when love meant a torn, pulsating
Heart, dripping blood, from enamored prey.
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