A face slides over the lake,
calm and shallow.
Gleaming eyes, black curls
fingers bony and godlike.
The moon shines them.
The eyes penetrate into the lake’s.
The curls, shiny, ain’t snaky yet,
proof that gods are not jealous, yet;
there’s something so humane
in that godlike grace,
something of innocence,
something almost infant-like,
in that smile,
of which gods are ignorant still.
So is she of any such legends,
of any horse galloping up in the air
or any hatred against the divinities,
any sea-love.
Far from the lake,
on a laurel, hoots an owl,
might cursing.
She doesn’t know to sculpt
live-statues, that would
be an art of godly talents.
Above human.
She is ignorant of everything,
good and evil,
of any brass-tower built high,
in a distant land or
her future fame.
Poor, poor reflection!
Inspired by Abby O. Akoto’s poem; a storyteller and craftsman of mythology:
