What the Angels Whisper
How hope still clings in the maze of youth,
though a vessel so tender,
not yet cured, apt to blow in the wind
as a ripened daisy,
a fledgling ----
too much a babe for a serpent's wile;
A helping hand awaits in the arms of time,
where moments pass to eternity,
the winds are hushed with reprieve,
always,
there is a friend staring to dawn
From love roars the mightiest wind,
of a warmth most enduring,
The rose sifts most sweet
in youthful shallows,
not deep of a withered old;
ere anger is bred and seasoned,
tamed to mother's ease,
The old man forgets, the harridan scoffs
while the child rides the winds
of rosy-dawns and soft remembrance,
somehow, the ancient are redeemed
Let love speak her tender tongue,
atop mountains too aloft for wicked ears,
Soothe she the weeping wayward,
the broken bone, fevers ungodly;
though she is mysterious to the ignorant,
confounds the tyrant in his self-genius ----
only God could know her name,
whispered infinite
(she is love)
** Excerpt from my epic ' The Blood of the Prophets'
(unfinished as of yet)**
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