The doorway yawns to make a passage for the lad,
a gate op’ning out upon the chairs and stove whereat
Zjemlya kisses Ouranos and mythicals the sofas,
the chrism’s song-fragrance mingling with th’ aromas
that curl ’round the door-posts, and anchor them; for brokenness
shall sleep offstage,
and build its cage
The sentinel-posts give blessings as he passes out the doorway,
an angel springs from crib-perch to navigate the noonday
which Ouranos must shield him from whenever there is need,
by raising mirth within his chest, and Fire that can speed
him on to Regions where his oatmeal will not mumble, fret and bleed
with madness, constantly.
[Return from Journey]
May joyful weariness e’er blanket him on his returns,
whether reaching for the face of Sky, and by the same so spurred,
or delights to set and rest his feet in nourishing cool Earth,
though these now never meet, uncoupled, hidden, suff’ring dearth
won’t penetrate the Earth with tears,
the ground has hardened with the fears
he gave her.
——————-Yet the shoots she rears
still yearn for light that future years
might give them, if you’re patient, Sky,
enduring Earth’s long night: –reply!
your children long for you.
So floor and roof are torn apart and spun out from all bearings,
the grey-clouds steal the Sky from him, while Earth is choked with tearing
weeds, and desert creep that stuff the hearth-mouth full; may pilgrims see
the need you have for pillows, slippers, socks and gracious lee-way,
on this shitpile
of a thing
to your backpack.
if you have the knack.