Witching hour has come again,
The clock strikes, two plus ten.
My sleepless eyes see not the dark
But far beyond, to the land of larks.
I see fully the fluttering wings,
Like sheer gauze on an evening dress that clings
Ever so subtly on an elegant dame,
As do they – to their heaven's lustrous flame.
They clutch a flame that does not burn:
Its trade the flame never thought to learn.
Its sheen gained from strength of pride,
They clutch a flame that has never died.
How can such a flame exist?
It baffles the mind and continues to persist
’Till from the lark-song the truth doth shine,
Elusive and transfixing in design:
"This is the azure realm –
The reflective river
That sweeps away modesty of all who come hither.
This is the golden realm –
The honeyed song
That sweetens our ego and lures it along.
This is the prismatic realm –
The polished glass
That gleams with our facets, unsurpassed.
This is the hazy realm –
The waking dream
That traps us high in our own esteem.
This is our demise –
The flame of our vanity
That shall erase, forevermore, our actuality.
This is our knowledge –
The reason we sigh,
‘The flame shall clip the wings that fly.'"
Before long, as the last note fades,
Like so many fair waxen blades
I see their feathers softly melt,
Scorched, although no heat was felt.
In a soundless process, without pain,
The dripping wax became pallid rain
That drenched the earth in a rainbow hue
Of blossoms which from each drop grew.
Expected and erratic,
Peregrine and prosaic:
Such are the strangest moments
Of startling ascents...
