Nor did it matter what it was,
An act yea cruel; a song yea new,
How soon this cloud of shapen glass,
Deformed, with sharpened edges black,
Whose blood would not in ern’st congeal,
Now fools the fool no sunken spell deny,
A breath of light so wretched is tolled away,
So cast thy shadow on shadow mine,
Let thine erring words colour me here,
Such that none would never be near,
That as I am till morn is broke and far,
The sun’s glory that could never reveal
Its cheapish glow with too little so dark
Yet so bright no dark is ill,
O Happy, yea free! Is this the glory ought,
That my forebears through warsong sought,
Did curse their youth this daring task,
Whilst they in soil or ash be heard,
Till even path is made is theirs unmade?
Ere my future is then my past unheard,
Let my present day swell like they did,
Though a cave I stand in here and pace,
With breaths so little to take: breathe.
Now heard are the trees whispering,
Now heard are the birds chirpering,
Through no fault at all, their day is whole;
Through no fault at all, our day is whole.

Through no fault at all, this day is new.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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