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National Poem Writing Month 2018 Day#21: Write a poem that plays with the myth of Narcissus in some way. 

The beauty of the dusk captured in the corner of the moment past

As he looks into the deep reflection of a man, he seems to know

(Just) a few days back before he started hearing the last words

Said by the girl, a fairy on the earth she was (now) he says to self.

 

His sigh ripple the water of the still water, the round in circles.

Tears he found falling out of his eyes, the deep hazelnut brown ones.

Now a color of peculiar enriching the beauty of the eyes, like he had

He who proposes him, and died being spurned by him, or is it the one

The one he’s looking at right now, a man he knew just before this hunt.

 

A hunter he is (or would be it was) he couldn’t decide on; the disturbed water

Asking him who are you…what you want…you want me…come get me…

He sighs and heard it around for a bit of moment, it is mocking, him, all he possesses

The pride of the beauty, the prejudice of being handsomest in the city.

What for this all…asked the man, distorted in the circle of the water.

All…all…all…he heard, at first loud near to his ears then faint before the silence.

 

He desired to look who is there around him or in the back of him but he cannot.

He doesn’t want to lose the sight of the man in front of him.

 

The man in the front turns grey, before turning faint,

And then turning to a gruesome figure.

 

His eyes hazed, his tongue being dry from the thirst now seems to be a dry leather one.

The grass underneath him now brushing his chin; the hair on his head is curtaining

The eyes and the skin is shedding away as wax does from a burning candle.

 

No, it can’t happen….what I desired I shall get it…he looked at the blank water

And took his knife out of his belt, rusted and unsharpened, and thrust it into his heart.

 

Blood streams like a snake through the grass and the weeds around him

Towards the water; his last breath echoed through the wood, beyond Thespiae,

Beyond Mount Cithaeron and above it–to the sky, heaven where it had stopped.

 

Dusk turned to dawn. The beauty of once hunter Narcissus scattered in splinter

Blinding the nymphs, the Gods, the ones whom he rejected, the ones who fantasized him.

The blood, red not comparable to any earthly or any heavenly things

Turn the blue of the water into green; a new land is born.

The sun, new and vibrant, shining on the blades of the new grasses

Conceive flowers coloring them with its own, perfuming with the ameinasis

Grown where he had lied down to fell his last breath, the birthplace of his last echo.



 

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