Myth

An orphaned paradise where wounded feet Must hymn the breath which gave it life and light Despairs for harmonies which subtly meet In whirlpools where bright genii wake to fight. Asleep along the foaming shore there lie Two citadels whose strong foundations greet A conscience winged in victory, which flies Above this land where will and passion meet. An islet, solitudinous and mute, Has harbored, for a thousand years, a man Whose life has flown on wings of plaintive lute While thirsting for the world from which he ran. On promontories whence he peers aloof Toward the azure sphere of mortal drift, He mourns his youth, his joy and treasured roof Where he received his first and dearest gift. How could he leave and then to Earth descend? Though he was blessed with endless life and sight Of what betides his kin where Death attends, He pines to see the sun’s absolving light. With bashful moves and longing, he comes down From his abode to where he meets the edge Of Life’s demesne, created with a frown To wear dull immortality’s sharp edge. He peers below, where lovers live in peace, And takes a step across dark heaven’s brink, While angels shudder as their fears increase: Their master’s jaunt may cause the realm to sink. His gaze observes the world around, yet not A sight presents itself to sate his thirst, For—long ago—the race of men forgot His name and will, and all his writs reversed. Though mortals bow their heads, they do not know What power has descended to their realm And, as he looks around, they flee and grow Alarmed at what they cannot overwhelm. Yet one disdainful face comes forth and grins While clasping the old master’s haloed head: “You fool!”—cries Death—“You want men for their sins!” His scythe then lashes off and God is dead. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com