by Malcolm Lowry
The tortures of hell are stern, their fires burn fiercely.
Yet vultures turn against the air more beautifully
than seagulls float downwind in cool sunlight,
or fans in asylums spin a loom of fate
for hope which never ventured up so high
as life’s deception, astride the vulture’s flight.
If death can fly, just for the love of flying,
what might not life do, for the love of dying?
Last updated September 29, 2022