"Il est indigne des grands coeurs de repandre le trouble qu'ils ressentent."
There will come a day
that sun's parched scream will no longer
beckon at my window
in a duet played between shade and light,
our wild furies will burn long
upon the shroud of sunset.
And in our waking awe there may well come a day
that we will quit our mock-heroics --
mark how God rose in a most demeaning guise
to walk silently among us in this;
a stone-paved faith.
None will hear cries at this raw flesh to call,
blood, let blood be spilt,
in the wound that is our keeper's mouth.
There will come a day
that we watch with absinthe eye
caught on each crow's foot as it passes by
in each face of our kin,
to sing again of those most favorable masterpieces;
the names of De Vinci and Angelo.
We shall become the refugee,
sprawled in honor to witness this day, this death:
the quiet acceptance of a flawed reality.
