Windmills

In the disquietude of night
I wake to find a dream
Slipping slowly into the pool
Of forgotten memory.
I wake to find the coldness
Of a hundred lisping vipers
Coming from the lips of a mother
Or a father or an apple or a song
And I wonder if these words
Will haunt me all my short lifelong.

The stale glow of artificial light
Tries to pass for a moonbeam
Slinking softly by the fool
Yet unknown to history
Who woke to find the numbness
Of a hundred devil pipers
Who call another and another
To a world of countless wrong
— O what happened to the song of birds
That used to be so clear and strong?

In my mind lies a torrent of torturous delight
That to anyone (but me) may seem
To be a self-inflicted, dark, or cruel
Or a forest of burning hickory
Alight with Divine Oneness
Blazing like a nameless pier
That screams that we are brothers
Lost in a memorising throng
That moves to the silent song of birds
Who know the secret of where we all belong.

In the disquietude of night I wake to find a dream
Slipping slowly into the pool of forgotten memory.

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This entry was posted in Other.

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