from Heart of Love

The sun is bound with amber chains of fire
thrown from the heavens' painted seat; the moon
and all her chariots have bowed to dawn.
Where is the silent nocturne of the soul?
The day is swung, a pendant at his wrist;
the wolves of God will hunt the orb he hurls
into the headstrong mountains of his throne.

The breath of God has thundered on the wave;
his counsel speaks within the distant pine
dumb whispers of a Spirit's majesty.
But I must hear the everlasting whine
of iron giants, and my soul's disease;
framed by a Babel inescapable
the dragonfly perched on an empty leaf.

The snow has fallen on the crystal lake;
I dream awake, for night is far to see,
although remembrance calls within the wind.
How sudden breaks the flood-gate of the east
beyond the shattered vista we have built!
How swift dawn's feet! her eye is yon the cloud
and patrons of our transhumanity.

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