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During
these hours of silent accord,
Below
the silver-gilded sky,
Where you bathed in the scent of evening
And I fell from that seat of grace,
I stooped so
low that you alone
Should summit the peak where you belong;
Apart from the sinners,
beyond their reach,
Forgotten to the mind of mortal man,
With those who, to their eternal astonishment,
Have toward
the endless begun -
Down among their broken words I crafted
The truth of what I had never known.
Should the truths we sought
to retrieve
Be shown to prove but our existence
And only the faults of those before,
Should we be found guiltless
to lie
Entombed in smoke for numberless years?
Or in a permanent winter to chill?
A decision that only is
subject to death,
But which the gods will, in time, decide.
Until the day when this judgement will pass,
Shall never
be our words exhumed.
What you call death, call I an entrance,
When descend I to the chanting sea.
Upon the morning of the
world we ride,
Our names burning the tongues of the dreamless
Who, in their colourless nights, recall
The words once
spoken in dusty voice,
But belong now to the sand and soil,
And never to rise from country sleep.
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