A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Unto the four winds did I shout your name,
And kept alight that sacred flame
Before the altars of Sun and Moon,

Underneath a vault of stars,
I offered prayer, that Oh, so soon,
Our eyes could share and know the same.

So simple, yet, now plain to see,
I know no more, no less of thee
Than I imagine, stars of me,

Who dwell a hundred lifetimes hence,
Whose light and sight I only sense
From long ago, when present tense.

Accuse me of idolatry,
Of worshipping a beam,
My faith, alone for company,

To temper, so 'twould seem,
The steel of my temerity,
The colour of my dream.

All is unknowing, no consolation,
Save for the glowing
Of a new constellation.
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