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Poem

high white clouds ride the sky
	beneath bright arching blue
bitter cold wind blowing through
	to my flesh and cloth to thin

silence echoes in wondering mind
	seeking fleeing thoughts lost within
rustling foots falls dimly are heard
	of all the things that I seek

of armies clad in armor bright
	crashing arms of battles fought
sounding loud across the land
	that cannot be hidden from my sight

and my thoughts are not like these
	bright point shining in the sun
crashing sounds loudly heard
	so of them I might easily find

Muses burst from heavens above
	in flowing robes of colors bright
of long tresses blowing in the wind
	eyes so bright shining in the sun

sound of pipes and flute is heard
	music that the gods might play
to mighty for mere ear of man
	that he might clearly then transcribe

words that poets may never write
	music that musicians can never play
plays never performed on stage
	offered freely to those who try

as I sit at mountains foot
	wishing to climb to its mighty heights
that the art of the gods I might find
	some how to use it in my art

too weak is my mere mortal flesh
	eyes are limited by human thoughts
my strength is not to climb the heights
	and have the gifts the gods to give

with quill of feather and pot of ink
	scribbling on parchment old
writing words I do not know
	speaking of things not understood

soft my moans of pain take flight
	carried upon the cold wind
faded by the bright piercing light
	loss to all and never heard

to my flesh the deed to do
	word of Muse lost in my mind
art of God's not comprehended
	by flesh of man in sunlight bright

still I wonder and I try
	to find the words that I write
that mortals might still find right
	before I go into the night

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