Land of the Seven Suns
' The gods' spake to all who had 'wide' ears...
but all they heard was Apollo's muse....'
How leavened my soul to search,
wooly and wild to the waxxen wind,
how swift my wings though my fancy yearns,
catching sights amorous upon its brim;
The cradled seeds of creation
the Maker in His woody shop,
sprinkles sprouts randomly met -
for a sorry soul elated;
One star the more gleams the dewdrop,
nourished and manifest,
to harps and moons are thee wed
The Great Forger feigns the ill-fraught
with great depths deep in denizens denied,
to loftier climes spirited to love
the angels teach and none shall hide;
Two thousand years weaning
the maternal whisper;
for thy father his oak of strength,
mother her rose most crimson ----
With lips imbued with forgiveness,
from darkling to light thee fled;
Rider of moonbeams,
and scarlet heavens!
Ever a wise seer donned a thick brow,
cared little for bickering and wails of spite;
spawned meadows of sagebrush
with courtly bow,
solved mysteries delved in the deep dark night;
So it was with a heaven's wish,
from high courts spirited as winter-wine
An eternal bloom to temper eternal fate,
all the islands spiral-hissed,
Though given all gilded history and time,
sleeps still, blushed in rose-less age
All earth's foundations steep in wine,
rivers rush flushed in silts burgundy
where the vein of the world's heart
winks to find ----
A fashionable flavor outliving the rose
which wilts;
The saturated soul craves
the lingering tear, oils to wet ----
the stoic machination,
Shades that spin the iron palette;
none to bore the firmament of good cheer,
to plant the common of every nation,
Curious to know what makes saints pure
and good men gallant ----
(gents of a few so proud)
The King walks His garden
calm as a fixed star,
There He finds the still pleasantries
and the birth of tongueless voices,
all the growing endures
and never strays too far;
Wisdom speaks in waiting din
and there remains gently loitered,
Who can hear the Voice of Wisdom
in the rattles of rancor?
What Voice speaks louder
than the soft dewdrop,
or the wild waterfall teeming with life?
The winds whistle names of quiet souls
chattering in breeze,
they speak easy
through the cracks of heaven's door
(eternal sons of the waiting land)
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2021
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