The past is now dead and gone,
its Doppler echo a song
that fades and yet lingers on,
palimpsest written upon
then erased with each new dawn
born as a wobbly legged faun
yet grown each night to a stag
whose hooves drag the forest lawn,
old and feeble, a weak king,
Day’s prince become an aged thing
that twilight’s wolves will soon bring
down. Each night as this hart sings
winter’s lament, dawn, as spring,
struggles from the womb and swings
the world again from abyss
to the bliss of beginning.
11 APR 2004
