TWO THOUSAND years breathes an epoch for me,
Nay a hundred gasps still so,
Bethlehem still sluggishly slouching to collect,
As Easter awakens with nothing to sow.
Along the trail, tamed sold streams sleep me by,
Shimmering azure skies wrought in ravines of white.
Past the bustling Circus I lie,
To see those Moors shone and bright.
As a gush of sighing sough screams past,
Crooning in noises ancient and resentful,
Echoed by the singed herbage lost,
Where stolen fire made it vengeful.
Abridge Lethe, chords of gone are rung,
As oblivious tears bleed through that bold bridge,
With sins now begun from that old ridge,
Placing withered roses to enthrone his quivering tongue.
Sinai to Golgotha lasts but a blink,
While April-Land awakens sterile and kind,
Breeding fragments out of infested peat:
A gated mosaic of tarnished time remains.
These Moors shone bright in fire,
Past Easter’s blink, epoch and time,
Whirling within the widening gyre,
Our slouch steepens towards Dasein.