And is that not the carpenter’s son?
Who wends his way through golden fields
Fields of light and morning flame
Beset by smoke and whirling ashes
On his way to whence he came
I feel the time is running out,
Tides of fire are sweeping in
Soon they’ll come to throw us out
Soon they’ll come to do us in
But every flower tells a secret:
When marauders come to scour the earth
Dark advances from all quarters
The day inclines to sad retreat
When leaves grow old and loose the sweet
Connection that cleaved them to the Tree of Life
To boughs that shiver in the cold
Then frozen knuckles fail their grip
And downward fall as green resolves to brown
When Frost-giants bellow from the hilltops
And all the sky is sour and bare
Every flower long since withered
Its soul commended to the air—
Know that the reapers were all angels.
Theoria-press △⃒⃘ 