Tribute to the White Eagle
Have you ever heard of the white eagle?
Let me tell you of his legendary flight,
stories of travels and terrors of night:
The dusk is near and the eagle
long forgotten in the shadows flies,
seeks to find a lonely feather.
Feather alone it hides in the stones
deep under rivers that ancients condone
yet flow in offensive distrust
between mountains of high pines, of ashes and dust.
So the eagle high cries a battle howl,
he sharp looks for the feather he's lost,
he's lost in his searches and never he stops
for a breath or a sigh, he never does yield, nigh,
and the white eagle flies in
the darkness, survives the pretences
of low-cost expenses, he
dies when the dawn comes, and
then he revives,
he's master of shadows and veiled tones and lies;
and below the white
feathers as graced by the twilight
low stand the moorish strands
of an abandoned land,
low stand their lands,
extinct by the white hand.
Oh, you people,
you have been watched by the white eagle,
and not once did you recall,
and not once did you atone.