2016 05 02
Across the boundless expanse of our lands
I hear above the rumble of car engines
choirs of poets floating over steel towers,
that thrum with computer servers in rows
of sizzling wires, who sing in coded verse
prophecies of transformation and growth.
From countless villages on river shores
blasted away by restless winds of war
our ancestors scattered from ordered lives
and assembled in vast cities of hope
to dance in seething waves of ecstasy
and mold us from mud before they all died.
Now that our living god of mortal flesh
retires from throne of power, and lays down sword
of judgment, whom shall we choose to assume
role of director who composes chorus
we sing in cathedral of grand illusion
to celebrate the hero with no face?
Though every poet in their little town
wanders in vast labyrinth of private dreams,
passing each other in shadows of ennui,
our many little songs in harmony
vibrate throughout cement maze of despair,
and all our small candle flames beam bright glow.
Drawn by quick rhythm of our beating hearts,
chanting spells in starless forest of fear,
we gather on mountain top of Parnassus
to hold hands in ringing ring of tall stones,
pillars that support dome of blinking eyes,
to weave many songs in one symphony.
When flash of lightning strikes tall central stone,
transforming granite to diamond of truth,
we see appear, combining separate souls
in one ideal Idol, our Mother Muse,
primal mother who rose from lake of dreams
and taught us how to sing dreams into words.
Astraia sings in flowing waves of verse
history of human kind since we first woke
on river shore, as sun rose behind tree
of ripening fruit, and spread to every land
in groups of curious exploring children,
and carved our names on sand of ocean shores.
One hundred thousand years our globe of eyes
spins in spiral dance around glowing sun
as we gather each night under clear stars
and sing visions of strange world we explore
to preserve deeds of heroes in sweet verse
that encode ethics in dramatic action.
We see her when we open wide our eyes,
mother of us all with long flowing hair
grasping wand of wisdom and gem of sight
as she rides winged horse of loyal love
to harvest ripe apples on river shore
while singing visions in words of our eyes.
Now again after long centuries of war
we wake from harsh struggle for liberty
to gather on mountain of ringing stones
in choirs of poets sea to shining sea
and sing wild symphony of human life
that weaves all our visions one grand tale.