Change of Guard: Tracking Vyasa
The kingdom falls off the summit of heaven,
the flute player warms the wind.
Great behemoths shudder teetering off cliffs
where the white-sun plays with a summer solstice eve.
Another man killed, another pinnacle falls,
dust to dust, this, once the first of sovereigns.
But the flute player plays a straight melody
that every kingdom, born or dying, must recognize.
Even the wide lipped lies, white tipped at the edges,
for none can fail the heartbeat of time, its long reciprocal silence.
The harlequins play to the gallery again, but the wheel
spins to a circle and stops till the eye of empire opens within.