Neither coin nor cask
Of the Life, there is much he does not ask

He does not seek Pluton
Amid the salt of the harbor or the clamor of the market square

He petitions it
Neither daily with song
Nor nightly with prayer

Nev’r do his beads caress Gaia’s spine
Nev’r is his breath melodiously cast upon the aire

Wealth, if not kept en check, hobbles the soul and
Prestige, a sickness unto death,
Leaves no room for one to get fat or grow olde

Works of Love,
Is he after

Page upon page
Chapter upon chapter


O, Queen of mourning!

Grant me
Yonder pomegranate

Grant me
Yonder skull

He asks to exalt
And to be exalted
And to NOT be able to catch his breath

.   .   .   for a strong tea, meager fare,
And very little else

What does he care
If the gold mine lies empty
And the butter pantry is bare?

He has met the eyes of his beloved
And beheld, en the clarity of their depths,
An earthrise!

What does he care
If his deeds are nev’r found
Upon the tongue of a single Tibetan seamstress?

He has slumbered en the cologne of a harvest maiden’s auburn hair
And dreamt of elephants (en curious flight)
And royal stars glowing at his feet!

Are these not Works of Love?
Is this not his daily bread?

Is this not why he is here with her
And not there without her?


O, Queen of Heav’n!

Grant me
Yonder raincloud

Grant me
Yonder rose

© LogosVox 2013

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