Threnody

Page One hundred eleven

Tuesday 23 November 2010…       Tiresome Turners Fails

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Line by line,                                                                                                                     
the song of lamentation seeks its chords.
Word by word, a river slides to its waiting sea.
To the harp, sing the song?
To the theremin, sound the end?
To the wind, to the warp and weft,
to the grey-waiting sea?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Or to the former stars, now letting bloods of eons?

                               ………………………….

How large is emptiness?
How dark is black?
 
                                …………………………
 
Who will avenge the breath of truthful eyes?
Who will eat up the thieves of love?
Who will burn off  the poison and leave the snowflakes
free?

                               …………………………..

Let the stingy djin come back (say dreams, say screams),
come back with double-open hands this time,
to stand a lightning tree
with kindled justice in its hands (this time, this fiery dream),
on a scorching and relentless plain of sand.
                               ………………………….
Christmas roses fall from a hand, land on the current,
run far and further from hand, and eyes, and heart.
The Christmas roses are for you.
They are for us.
(to follow, to follow)
Silence rains on the heart’s picture-book,
rains in the spaces where the music lived,
on homely objects clutched out of debris.
Silence reigns; queen of the landscape of 
the clasp torn apart.
                              ………………………….
Let the stingy djin come back.

 ________________________________________________

(part of the book Being Toward Death)    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~   Share  ~~~~~  Fourth February

(dragon frame at www.gaelsong.com)

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