I hear that the sâcré vent blows
Superior, with sibylline reason.
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, a love affair
Of the two points seethes so
Rifely, the people can feel it.
From one phantom soul to its distant other:
"I am an expanse of sapped land. There exists
Merely imminent disaster that could bring
Us together. If only, if only, reveal yourself
To me and I will learn to touch you from
A distance."
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the earth flattens.
"I see you. Of all the people that have
Tramped my streets prospering off
The throbbing currency of mine ardor,
Of all the nimbus that I have worn on
My head like a crown, of all the exquisite
Cairn erected in my honor, I have never
Known a face so deific and true.
Govern me by your seasons.
Let us grow decrepit and crumble
At once. Let our people die and our
Memories perish so that we may
End our lives in dust face down on
A crusty earth that crackles with
The madness of our thoughts."
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the flat earth
Enables the wind to take route South,
The sâcré vent is born.
1 comment:
From Turakh up to Dunay, into the icy waste of the Laptev
Down the coast again to the river's mouth across powdered hills
In Tksi, Bulun, and Nayba I looked
Yet you were gone.
Was that your voice in the roar of wind that
Crept across the cataracts from the deep interior?
It was against a blanket of white that two sable orbs would materialize
And then failing to fulfill their promise of you
Fade back into the soft and slowly falling snow.
The frost administers it's sacred runes and
The narwhale greets me with apt admonishments.
In sheeted blue emeralds that gather on the wisps of a wintry moon
I hear that eternal language
Wherefore every solid substance doth teach.
The preceptor is only the face of the living world.
And the utterances at which I wonder
While couched upon the rocky crag of some great eminence
To bury my head in thick white fur
And sulk in the vacancy left by your absence
Are some divine foreshadowing
Of things beyond all reason or abstruse musing.
Gladden me in this deep solitude.
In the majestic cadence of the folds of snow
That gather around my deep repose
It must somehow be here hidden the signature of your Sybil song.
Thus in the undulations of these billowing drifts
Is bespoken the prescience of a messianic vision.
Like a palimpsest that nature doth rework in her restless fluttering
So is written the holy verse that would guide me forth.
In the zetetic passage of a wandering white fox
In the swelling sea that hides below ice
In the owlet's cry
I hear your spirit song.
Post a Comment