Eagles Poem by Marieta Maglas

The eagles can never know

the mystery of the volcanoes,
which appear to soar across
snow-capped mountain peaks
while the embers of their rage
burn fiercely within
the ruins of history.

The eagles are baffled as to why

the scream can be an echo,
the echo can be a scream, and
the green still suckles
the teats of the spring.

But the eagles are hearing

the sound of brooklet ripples
falling with a murmur,
and the cubic rocks rolling
for singing.

The eagles are able to see

The meandering path
through the forest,
reminiscent of a hanging wall,
teeters on the sloping edge
like a surreal rock climbing tale.

Poem by Marieta Maglas