The Lords of Zephyr
Zephyr,
echo of the eastern wind,
gentle and balmy is thy caress,
your kiss leaves the hardened heart due west;
breath of hope for steely-days,
winds of change whisper fortune,
do they raise the spirits of righteous device,
and speculate to riddance,
of tempests to come,
flee me forever ---
in thy pleasant climes
Spirit of the western wind sings,
thy floral in flowered Spring,
whistle in the wombs of weeping willow hangs,
the grated ground from stretching hands
(courtship of the tasseled frays)
so human is thy playful ways,
and child-like thy fickle display
(though so earnest is thy whistled word) ---
I leave thee my levity, and forget thee not,
keepsake to keepsake; when the hour is late
and the icy-ridges of doom do renounce and boom;
in the breath of my end days
sing in my ears once more
(the coda of drummer calls)
and play thy earnest tune,
in the vestige halls of evermore
(I do wait)
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2017
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