In the flower that wilts by the pane looking out
On the garden that nurtured its bud;
In the carrion sprawled over sparkling sands
And the soldier that bloats in the mud
Of the trench where he fought, where he feared, where he fell
By another decaying man’s shot;
There’s a power at work, that of Nasu the black,
The insatiable mother of rot.
She descends from her keep in the desolate North
On the wings of a furious fly,
And with infinite droning and brooding of worms
Takes possession of creatures that die
— Holds her court within creatures that die.
© 2020 Sarah van der Pas
Nasu: Zoroastrian demon of corpse matter.
Image Source, with insight on The Secret Life of Flies