Branch: Lucian
Not sure what to title this...
The beauty of your upturned face
Against the moon shines brighter still
And the wreath of roses that are your crown
Are fairer; their perfume rarer
Than any ever found
The shadow of your talent
Is greater than the most of mine
Even now; and the music of your tongue is
Unforetold and undescribed
A sortilege so profound
I have heard your melody; the words
They seemed alive; as if not speech but artists
Painting a picture of creation, of a time
Before I or my nation
Were here to struggle or diet
But I, my voice betrayed me
Not to squeak, I could not speak
But only shriek- shriek, shriek
And burn with hot desire-
It was neither hope nor prayer
So it was a silver sword I made
And on the gleaming fiery blade
Was imbued the clematis twilight of my soul
Yet ugly it still it seemed when matched
To thine eternal lofty shrine
And still your voice arose
With a beauty immortal
And the gaping wound behind my flesh
Drank and was not healed, the heinous blade
I yield and it was then-
Then it was a tumultuous fright
That erupted from your song
And yet- still it rose past Heaven
Where there is no wrong
The hate you formed swelled and caused
That unsurpassed ethereal
Alluring cry of yours
To be kilt; forever stilled by
A double edged dagger
Now laced with shame and guilt
-
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Bracha
Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread.
Through shadows to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.
