Swan
by: John Grey

We are all swans,
from the maidens who doff
their feathers by the water
to the ones who,
slick as thoughts,
pull the chariots
of Venus and Apollo.
If County Mayors most virtuous
dwell in their pure white bodies,
if the Buriats of Siberia
endow the bird
as mother of their race,
if even Zeus himself
chose that form to seduce
the beautiful Leda,
father her children,
then who are we to complain
of this lovely head,
long, sleek neck,
of these angel wings.
So if we soar
one beat behind
our trumpeter's cry,
where is the complaining.
If we glide across
the still lake,
the lovely sunset meter
of another‘s poetry
why the uproar.
And if I bite
your neck to mate,
why deny the instincts
of the breed.
And if the blood
trickles down your chest,
decanted by the swell
of my fever,
never doubt that it
is swan's blood.
And if life
should slip away
from the chasm
I have made in you,
purse your beak,
serenade its parting
with a searing show
of melody.
Remember my sweet,
only a dying swan can sing.