by Fliss

We spot the cygnets on Upper Lake today:
an elegant fleet, their flanks just turning white,
but incomplete as five. One child had stayed
with Dad, on Lower Lake, the previous night

or nights; who knew? "Three nights," I later learned
from Pittville's Swan-Lady. The five had flown
across, soon after George (the dad) seemed stern
and looked as though he'd like to be left alone

with just one daughter. Mother died in June;
"Nature will take its course," my expert said.
The instincts rule. We watch George chase a goose
then surge towards his girl with side-turned head

and she, submissive, give a little bow,
a subtlety. She's far too young to breed
but drifts upon her father's vigorous swell,
the first contender to satisfy his need,

incestuous in human terms. But swans
are not of contemporary human mind.
We leave them sailing off towards the ponds,
the daughter still a little way behind.

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Mohamed Sarfan's picture

Dear Poeter, Each of the realities and philosophies that the universe carries is like a sharp weapon. The mind that carries sins and the mind that carries benefits are the theertham of two different clouds that sink their heads in the same river of thoughts. Millions of people are trapped here in solitude, like an autobiography of a mind, sleeping with its head in the lap of a dream. The word division is an inevitable part of human life. It is a fact of life that sober human beings leave us on the path of love between likes and dislikes. Desire over body, war over feeling, and morality over love are within every human being. But the speed of action varies. I wonder how you think like this. This poem really impressed me. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations

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