The Seagull
It soars through the sky, gliding along the wind
that invisibly supports its thoughtless aerodynamics.
They say that it gathers the clouds, but thus to have sinned
is beyond its lot; only Zeus graces urns, madams’ ceramics.
Rather, has not the storm attracted seagulls
to flock as they are wont — in camouflage
dull even on the brilliant reflection that mulls
itself, on the water’s surface a mirage.
Whether it is one or another the attractive force,
ultimately both are ignorant of their roles' clash
for us enough to correlate, and relate in voices hoarse
the graying world they bring about like so much ash.
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