Satya­jit Sarna

The London Magazine - - NEWS -

Bot­ti­celli’s An­nun­ci­a­tion

Gabriel com­ing down the moun­tain, Gabriel with his face like wax. Sound of his wings, what does he bring?

He kneels like a skin full of liq­uid, raises his god empty eyes. The girl is sullen, the stranger is cold and inat­ten­tive for a suitor.

This is the edict from the sil­ver city: You will raise a sol­dier, he will die Your arms will hold his bird-bones, they will roll Off your lap, into the ground, and his soul into the sky.

She hears him list­less, her face too is waxen. The jewel of the good life passes to an­other girl; for a son like this, she must stitch a shroud. Out­side, it is sum­mer, De­cem­ber still half a year away The hay is dry, it needs rolling.

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