Down into the crags and the cedars,
I walk by rivulets and bleached stone
Past the proud gates of granite
That bear us silent witness.
Down into the timber and the pine musk,
As the dusk begins to veil
The boulder spotted canyon
I kneel to fresh strewn grasses.
Here you’ve left your mark:
Hoof-snapped twigs and upturned sod.
Down again into the trees,
I follow all night by vision fire
If I must.
Because now it’s not my eyes that see,
But what leads me is the eye that guides
The lion of the mountains
The monarch journey South.
And through it I can gaze
Back through my fathers’
Past my mocking collared shirt,
Past my tinfoil dinner,
The letter number combination
What can purge me but the wind and fire?
And so I’ve brought
This impure weapon,
Coward lightning rod.
The leaves in wind aurora,
There you are.
Your horned majesty
Rises softer than the moon
And your loins betray the might
Behind your pawing,
A wild rose bending in the rain.
And we’ve come to it.
My ashen barrel leveled
Not against your horn,
Which would shatter like the wreckage
Of snarling metal, gaseous fires
On tar-paved roads.
But still I raise this dark steel weapon
Against the terror of continent starvation,
Against cities sprawling naked on the parching earth,
Against the citadels of black tied men,
You pace and are almost free,
But my weapon follows
For the oldest of communions,
In the rites by which we live.
Here is the single golden round
Worth more than blood and nations.
Yes, they’ll despise my gothic dream,
But in them will be entombed
The corral horde of billions.
You’ll be hallowed by the fire.
Forgive me and live on,
I tell myself, and take my mark.
And peering through the eagle eye,
I place you on the cross,
The ancient heathen pyre.