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. . .
