The horses of my childhood run beyond the promised land,
On sea and mountain never seen while they were bound by men.
They call to me, the boy they loved,
approaching thrones of heaven
Petitioning on my behalf, “is not our boy in season?
The broken body scarce contains the spirit of his being?
Might this string of horses rise on crescent moon to meet him?”
“Patience now, the child of water rises from the sand.
Must lay down his life, Eternal art, to die a happy man.
For this great purpose he remains whilst you run wild these shores.
He pines for you sad violence fires his pen to boundless joy.
And when Eternal Art, to Me, the letters finally spill his blood,
Across that great divide ride We
to meet again the boy you loved.”
jP 2021.13.6
No comments:
Post a Comment