Is there a fate, but of the grave
Where shattered lie our thousand hopes,
Or a flower's breath that wilteth not
'neath parching gaze of Day?
And, what, the eye which yet beholds
Dawn's sparkle midst the dust...
While Heaven bellows then but dirge,
And prostrate Sun lies inked by moon
Whose dark-tipped quill has stricken
Poem and song, and sweet-aired Dream
From all the heart has writ...
Copyright © Michael Grugan