cavalcade.
scatter! fragments—
a clatter and sparkle,
ashes—rise!
up from stamping feet.
oh, sun—set!
yes and, sun!—rise.
if the sun rides the moon’s face
and makes backdrop of the darkness
–the shadow uncurls, slowly
and saunters under the trees, untroubled—
shouldn’t we dance—
tell me!—shouldn’t we saunter?
aren’t your teeth the moon of your smile?
—the dark center of your eyes—
a cool and restful place? away from the heat!
what are we?— ruins and sunrise.
what are we?—dusk and cathedrals rising.
what are we! the joyful mourners
of the thing that didn't die.
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2 comments:
"what are we! the joyful mourners
of the thing that didn't die"
this is profound. great work.
thanks!
I had just read some of "The Wasteland" for the first time... and I thought I liked Eliot... but *damn*.
Those words really move, y'know? and I fell in love with the cadence... and I wanted to see if I could make it work, just a little bit...
... and now I think I have to go and read the whole thing-- and I'm sure it'll be months before I get it out of my system... because I'm still humming just that one little fragment in my head...
... but it'll be worth it, I think.
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