Photo: fineartamerica.com

Jake Saunders

Staff Writer

O, immaculate wild-yonder!

Sing over the earth

And speak over your pine-field plains,

Sing over the seas

And teach across your cavernous basin

Sing over the winds

And loudly at the marching of teeming fires,

Sing o’er

For there is yet a foresight in nigh-Time,

Sing o’er

As it is nearer the mongrel’s soma,

Sing o’er

And to abundant unfathomable mornings,

Sing o’er

And above the blackened hindsight evening,

Sing o’er

For once-existing, illuminated-Time provoked madness in clock-working hands,

For his minutes eager to amount full, in deadly hours of weight-stroking pendulums,

Ultimately chaining hand-faced discharge;

Knowing wholly as it were by moon-dials, to become the beast in creature slaying…

Sing, for deft hands have been calmly shaken, and wheels centered, vulgar pinions sanded;

Rehabilitated cogs readjust

Where facilitated years have timely grown rust,

Te Diem for triggered Time remembers!

Oneself of the fielded-sway,

Oneself of the ocean-break,

Oneself of the sky-ring,

And relinquished are the faults of iron hands –

A swelling churn, a steady metered tick,

A worn face of translucent-acceptance,

Hollowed, gutted for spare machinery

And allowing the measured ticks to eat:

I will strike and chime and bellow holy,

I will clamor about and ring out bells,

Of Time-forever is a balanced pace –

At roots of wise, efflorescent mercy…

Roots are the ticking of a father-clock,

Growth is the cracking on a working ground,

Limbs are the ebbing to a steady sea,

The crown is the beating of haunting sound….

Crying out,

Louder now. . .

Silent. . .

Echoed. . .