The Owl and the Wind

The Constancy

Gnarled Knowledge

The owl and the wind
Talk to the stone in the thin hours of night.
They discourse on doing Godšs will
And how man will fare.
I have listened only a short time,
Changed for eternity.

The owl is like the thunder:
Different sounding here.
He listens intently to
The opinion of the wind
Before the stonešs learned face,
His tonal hoots complex in
Their careful answer.

I am a foreign guest,
Yet welcome all the same,
On the balcony in the charged
Night air, at one of the great
Meetings of ancient creatures,
Who, wise and having seen all
Man's defeats,
Ache to make him see the truth.

Born into a country that
Waits in the Vestibule
Because of its indecision,
Its people bound for the
Second Circle,
I wade through the darkness.

The stone calls;
My mind calls,
Deafness having been brought on
By the high pitch of tin.

There is one muted, dull constancy
The piercing din notwithstanding,
That endlessly tries to be heard behind
The dungeon wall, so thick the
Pounding is but a bothersome tap.

What the trees know is not for our ears.
That they continue and reach out,
Furrows the brow,
Makes one laugh,
A shake of the head.
But to dismiss them that way
Is a mistake.


Maria's word begins the melody.
One need only to hear her to respond;
The rolling drum sounds first;
The horns begin low
But reach a crescendo
With the cymbals.
Then the flute, oboe and clarinet
Play a fusion
Until the harp brings the calming
The sound lives forever
There on the page.

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