Language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. - George Eliot
Redeemed! In weft wove gold of Raveloe –
Hush now…Kind heart – I see this Golden Rule
Doth comfort thee. Sternly observant as the love shall go.
Which Love? For Greeks had words
For passions – Fractured them – Cruel
Speech that throws a sense
Yet senseless lies.
I am undone in syllables –
E’en as your story tries
To reassure. Its reassurance wanes.
A hollow mouth.
An empty glass.
And leaves – well – foretell Nothing.
True! Future rests her footing on the Past.
Seer, stop and tarry – for the night is young –
And we must marry meaning with the urge –
Strange feeling – not unique –
For were it thus we’d have no word for it.
O! Seer - Gaze upon the palm –
And see Eternity –Reflected in the coin.