Musings

By: Loak Posted on: December 19, 2004

Musings

Recorded a Few Yards above the Eastern Ithmia, on Return to Eleusis, Ero 24th, 353

Silvan dreams let wandering thoughts, coalescing
Under the lunar wabes, present their fall delights on
The unsettled mind. You, and thousand pastures'
Does, round my humble camp do frolic in the
Dawn's mother's winds, surrounding my own little
Fire's warmth, sharing and defying my solitude.
When, in a wild wandering, can a muse hit—-not
Once, but always, though her words be dim-—to
Those who listen, and do not discount the silence and
The crass interrupts as unworthy of attention.

What pitiful we are-—sitting or standing it makes no
Mind-—for older still, towering wiser fools straight
Ready are, to meet their fate at Fate's hands. Why
Do we not thus surrender to the world? Kindness is
Just reward, without further plunder fruits and berries
And herds' thinning do suffice, and we ourselves
Injustice do as wolves who bite and are not fed. To
Her be wed—-She will provide, and so take no other
Bride, of mortal form at least-—not in matrimony, but
In life, lived within her vacant holes, giving free and
Taking less, for all that She has done for me.

Little is known, less understood, of wild whispered
Silvan ways. But still, this we cannot profess to
Ignorance: we are here but now, and perhaps Nevermore.

Take heart! young wanderer, in Her delight, who
Brings forth the sun each day. What She does again
Each winter's end, to eternal spring's eternal joy.
And then, harsh always is She, at autumn's end
Again return the wolves of winter. Summer's bled:
To heat a lovely Silvan home.

-Loak Silvertongue