We Cry For The Loss Of Ourselves Poem by L.B. Temuco

Flow backwards
soft liquids of being
become the moist sweat
of the last hunter
before it dries
into the formless dust of extinction
into the immediacy of nothing
before it is born again
written into the fables
of natural things
becomes a dark corner of the night
the once gaping jaws
made breathless
by some strange calculus
of evolution
light bleeds from its yellow eyes
and scatters itself
in luminous mandelas
across the last skies of the world
the tussock grass ends here
by the cradled lake
I arch into its movement
I have its history in my veins
I hear the cries of victims
the shallow sobbing
of their disappointment
of being run down
without ever saying goodbye
From the wilderness
you watch and you sigh
the moon fills the clouds
with the fragrance of copper
love is ensnared
we see the killing blade fall
the red memories of blood
enters the earth
You dig your fingers
into the crevices of my heart
We cry for the loss
of ourselves