The Hart of Manhattan

I am walking by night from the mountains of my home
lordly beneath this crown, though no man knows its weight,
white-antlered as if I am a mountain crested with two oaks,
the foothills green and gold by the sea of blood
part to let me pass, and when I ask if I am ever to return
they bow in silence
—no eyes see my approach.

Pausing upon a bridge made by human hand,
spanning land and sea and river and sky, I ponder
what they have made,
then knowing my task I leap forward onto the island
—none see my arrival.

I have brought the mountains into the city;
it is my gift to you; and the sky which is my breath,
and the sea as well, for all oceans are in my eyes,
and this I bring to you,
for all has come from me
—none see me pass between the towers.

I lift my head and sound the bugle call
to rouse the city from its sleep, but the city awakens into deeper sleep
and dreams itself awake when I am among them.
Why is it so, this reversal of intent?
Why, though I do them no harm, do they fear me?
—none know who I am.

Who shot me, who made me fly on panicked feet?
Leaping, leaping, tossing my head before I fall to the pavement
and my crown rolls along the streets
as you gather round to see a marvel brought down.
Who has done this? Who?
Speak! The arrow quivering in my chest with the last pulse-beats
does not condemn you, nor do I condemn you, my slayer,
but you should know me, for I was born for this.

If my blood is needed to show you to yourself,
to refresh you or awake you now, I will give it.
Here it is, take it.
But understand as you drink that even the mighty
strain their eyes for a final glimpse of stars,
longing to rest like children in their mother’s embrace.
~Michael O'Brien (re-posted)