Far, so far, from living lands Doth Eden's garden still repose, In mantled vines and clinging thorn In metaphor, a secret rose; From human memory so torn Till etched traditions be reborn.
Oh, sweet Eden, art thou sleeping, In thy shadowed wall? Shining secrets art thou keeping Written ere the fall?
In language foreign to our ear Didst Eden's master frame His words. In dreaming glade and breathless dell In symphony with new-made birds, Before the judgments awful knell When Eden's silences befell.
Oh, sweet Eden, art thou dreaming In eternal night? Hope hast thou of thy redeeming? Dost thou crave respite?
With flaming sword the angel stands At Eden's gates of timeless age, In bitter rosemary and rue, In gentle healthfulness of sage; By garlands twined with war-like yew Tear-watered by the steadfast few.
My sweet Eden, soft in slumber Join us in our prayer, That though with sin we still encumber Thou art dreaming fair.
"Shalom", she whispered. He bent low to kiss Her hand and then her lips. The London flight to Brussels was announced. One last caress - and she was gone. A holiday so bright with promise paled. Their brief communion; human enterprise That reckoned little with established code. Said Bagsair was lost to jet and skies.
November rains and Tuesday's mail arrived; The envelope postmarked Khartoum contained Three photographs (no message tucked inside). He'd kept his promise -yet it pained her so. And Kipling's thoughts on East and West Had run the gauntlet of another test.
I hear them knock upon my door. I see them just beneath the frame. With silent steps, I cross the floor, and hear them chanting this refrain. Come out, come out into the night, come see the secrets hidden here. Invoking prayer the room I light, preventing them from drawing nearer.
I cry, Go away, leave me here, I will not open or let you in. A moment of silence and then I hear, their taunting call once again. I scream, my terror I release, my voice echoes off the walls. Still they will not let me be, continuing their damning calls.
For five long years in bitter night, I have held them all at bay. They vanish with the morning light, returning at the close of day. Tonight my sins they fling at me, tell us now, do you deny? I wearily whisper, no I am he, I hang my head and softly cry.
As still as death upon my bed, I wait for morning sun to rise, the gun I put next to my head, the shadows win I close my eyes.
"Shalom", she whispered. He bent low to kiss Her hand and then her lips. The London flight to Brussels was announced. One last caress - and she was gone. A holiday so bright with promise paled. Their brief communion; human enterprise That reckoned little with established code. Said Bagsair was lost to jet and skies.
November rains and Tuesday's mail arrived; The envelope postmarked Khartoum contained Three photographs (no message tucked inside). He'd kept his promise -yet it pained her so. And Kipling's thoughts on East and West Had run the gauntlet of another test.
Once beloved by pharaoh's claim Banished from the royal game Nefertiti of the Nile Leaves behind a fabled name
Queen of ancients, old in guile wise and careful, rests a while Beneath the hot Egyptian sands In memory we see her smile
Lost in tales of older lands Gone to sate old time's demands Unforgotten shall she be Ghostly sceptre in her hands
Worshipped once by royal decree Tending children at her knee Father Death has called her free Remembered by eternity.
Into the Sun
I see the sun, and is showered by its golden light If only I could fly I would head into its core, Burning to cinder from its flame, But if I do just that the life I knew would be gone, But yet still I wish to fly through its flame
I count the days by newborn suns and a fading star, wild flowers bloom, and leaves of shady shine, old thirst for love turns to a blaze in my lifes jar. Your orchard trees my bed, my life, my spine, my sprouting wreath youll never merge to tar, my fingers climb and twine to it as growing vine.
I count the seasons by the ripe fruits you gave me, from early springtime cherries to autumn apple pie, your touches mended the debris of a broken key. Bright rainbows take the place of a once grey sky, wind fills the sails of vessels floating to the open sea.
I count my life by breaths I found inside your age, and ticks of hearts, the sounds of life we freely share, the scents of herbs, of rosemary and thyme and sage. And many secrets of yore, to us so dear and rare we laid together in the book, the place of a sacred page tied up with bows of ribbons red to words of love and flare.
This site owned by Anastasia Cassella-Young. All copyright laws applicable. Site conception March 12, 2009.
