The Game of Life

Under a starless sky, wrapped with
lifeless air,

The swaying sinewy
Palms,
Assuming the looks of fragile
Sticks,
Solemnly augur the words
Of the sacred gods,
Stern, behind the shadows;

And the vines – thin and curled -- creep up
To his ears.

The moistness of the mosses, an aroma of
uncertain
Eccentricity,
Like a thousand shooting arrows – reeking
the
Strongest potion,
Seeks to paralyse the
Senses.

The brush with the god of death –
In a sudden flash, lingers
Bitterly
That night
Under the stygian quilt, as
Alone he lies
Within the needles of
Roots – deserted by
His friends and foes,
Helpless,
Cowering before the largest beast,

And his scarlet dense blood
Oozes out of the skin
To crown his broken spirit –
In sarcasm.

The gnarled bearer of death
With his lips signed with
Blood
And frosty long limbs
Bids adieu at last,

Admits
The rosy lips of an angel,
Peaceful yet passionate,   
To whisper into his ears
That it is a gift of second life
He should cherish
With the bond they have forged for ever --
And little matters now
That death has lost his secrecy.

In the mystery of the night –
Once again –
When the moon and stars are
Invisible
One unhappy winter,
A blaze is seen,
Voracious, bright and strong,
Glowing
High above the ashes
Of the spires and the tombs,

And the burning flesh of the moribund
And the deceased–
Laughing in their grave
Mingle with the smell of
Destruction.

And he stands,
With his adoring guardian
Angel
And a heart of love and hatred,
Erect, next to the marsh
With a dazzling flame in his
Hand,
And his head, crowned in leaves and thorns
-- held
Up
Competing with those whips of fire,
Uncaring
To reach the height of the
Unseen stars,
As destiny once again
Whispers into his ear
That life is
Neither fair nor is it kind
But has now, in the game of the highest
stakes,
Chosen him to claim
What is meant to be his.

-- Fariel Shafee