Island Of My Heart © Surazeus 2024 09 27 Yoresick for misty island of my heart, where my ancestors lie buried in sod beneath rowan trees on cold river shore, I stand on porch of my home far away and try to replicate heart-aching song I hear in breeze that swirls hair round my eyes. They are no longer real, those glens and crags where my ancestors wandered in their youth, searching desperately on desolate moors for berries, mushrooms, or bird eggs to eat, except in frantic dreams of lonely hope where I keep walking toward dark mountain cave. I find no great heroes with shining eyes, whose exploits fighting monsters and mad kings to save humanity from tyranny are recorded with blood on dusty scrolls in basements of stone churches by the sea, except for me reflected in iced meres. Yet fragments of knowledge about my past provide no material of trusted truth to frame foundation for my present state, so I must focus on what I need most, wood to repair shelter, food to consume, and weapons to chase attackers away. I have nobody but cold mountain wind blowing in trees to keep me company, so I breathe deep wild spirit of the air and sing heart-felt ode to the autumn wind who drives leaves over treeless muddy glade with words the blind enchanter once taught me. With tear-bleared eyes glaring at wintered light of the mute sun, who always stares at me, I search shadowy expanse of the world for azure bride of Spring whose eerie voice calls me with mercurial faith in our love, but she dissolves into the sparkling stream. Emerging from vapored mist of the storm, she rises from tangled grass of the shore, and through dim verge winds solitary way with walnuts and apples in baskets heaped by dirt-smeared hands that caress my flushed cheek as she hums with compassion for my pain. Tending wounds from sharp arrows I sustained while battling gang of thieves with crooked staff, she mushes apples and walnuts in meal, then feeds me with kisses and laughing smiles as I tell her about gold misty glen where I ran searching for her in the wind.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Friday, September 27, 2024
Island Of My Heart
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Orpheus smiles at Ophelia through pain-blurred eyes as he wildly sings wind-worded songs of love.
ReplyDelete