K

At night, when the winds hum low
And the chirps and croaks become
A mantle of words and whispers,
I remember the ghosts
Of poets past, of longings old;
Tonight, dare I be so bold,
As to praise the moon,
As to sing a song?

Heroes in torment in search of a sign,
Immortal in hymn and elegiac cries,
Play humanly fortunes Homer foretold;
Sunk in the heavens the triremes of yore,
Beacons of beauty forever looked on
By seekers of meaning, passion and soul.
Galloping visions, primeval first notes,
For you, what to do but sculpt marble lyres,
And play evergreen anthems writ by fawns,
Sweeping chords, flames of love, lust and desire?

Ah! To anoint with ambrosia
These words, fledging arrows
From a spirited quiver borrowed,
Caressing the breeze,
On its murmurs riding,
Shot to pierce fleeting wings;
An archer trembling with fervor,
Waiting for the birds of ardor
To fall from ethereal heights.
To aim upon the sky
With tears of emotion
Moonlit and reflecting,
Only a vague notion
Of the proper tension,
Right intension, nether winds;
Time to release the feather.

The words to make a symphony,
A tune which memory ne’er lost;
A marksman of melody,
Forever a teacher of song
In the hybrid art of letters and notes.
To paint thus so very exquisitely
Dramatic travails of antiquity
As to have a name not chiseled in stone,
But one that was writ in water.