We finally did climb the mountain,
found some eggs, the eagle laid?
Remember?? we rebuilt its nest and created a roof overhead
hoping the eaglets would not bear the harsh rain or sun
yes, they had hatched a while ago, was that recent!!
oh!
They are now two generations past
Now they frequent that spot, I built a few more shades and nests
we built three more last week, remember?
Ah! no that was me dreaming, I built them, thought you were there!
Wait a minute! these are not the eagles I was looking for!
They all look at me strange, with steely eyes, sharp beaks
Oh! these are vultures, not those eaglets
Why have they come to me? they are sitting on my chest, tickling my rib
One seems to bubble my blood
ah, vultures... have you observed them closely
Lovely little lads, the neck we agreed earlier is odd, but still functional
Reminds me, what was I thinking, and why would I think of you and that ledge
How long ago was that you left? I am trying to recollect, with these sweet vultures here while i rest
I see dusk seems to be approaching swiftly, oh nice! I can see the view from atop
Hey... that is not me, just one of my eyes being carried
who dreams of vultures and their sorts, who really does!
Hey, do you remember the last time you were here
We finally did climb the mountain,
found some eggs, the eagle laid?
Remember, those vultures hatched in the cuckoo nest?
we built, there on that kitchen sill? below the Guava tree!
Oh! hey, how are you love
Oh! you are not here really ...
Right
-------------------
For those who are not sure of what it is!
Here is the full explanation
This poem is a mind mid-breakdown.
Not dramatic movie breakdown. The quiet kind. The kind where you're functioning, maybe even smiling, but inside the thoughts are looping, slipping, grabbing at memories that blur at the edges.
The person in this poem loved someone. Built a life with them... or was building toward one. The nest is a home. The roof they constructed carefully, hopefully, is the future they were making together. The eaglets are things they were going to do, become, grow into. Dreams with wings not yet dry.
She left.
And now the mind keeps returning to the beginning. Same memory, same mountain, same question... "do you remember?" But each time the details shift slightly. Eagles become vultures. The mountain slides down to a kitchen sill. A guava tree appears from somewhere tender and ordinary.
That's not poetic license. That's literally what heartbreak does to memory.
The vultures aren't sinister. They're just the thoughts that move in when a home empties. Sitting on your chest at 3am. Circling. Patient.
And then mid-spiral, the mind does that thing... it forgets for one split second. Sees her face somewhere in the fog and just...
"Oh! hey, how are you love"
Before remembering.
"you are not here really..."
"Right."
One word. The whole poem lives and dies in that one word.
That's it really. No symbols to decode. Just someone, still building, still asking, still forgetting and remembering again.
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