My Journey to You

Blood wept in Ages past Is blood forgotten by eyes long dead But no less precious, For having bled. Children born in years unknown Are still children raised with goals bemoaned But in us their toils Know only sorrowed promise. An overseer’s son, No doubt gazed upon stony blocks And wondered at Father’s sense But his hands were no less calloused. And emperor’s centurion Bled in Gaulish fields Under flag and field In duty now forgotten, But his body knew no more precious a price. A Norseman grew On wave and tale Knowing his tale had a black end But his sword knew no regret. A noble welp On peasant straw Screamed his legacy to empty rafters But his pride knew no fabric but silk. A mason sired three In a year without precedence He bore, and loved, and buried said same His curses fallow, before his icons. There once came, on a border That only eldritch maps would speak A Prince who raised steel against his brother But both now fetid lie, within an arrow shot of said same. Many flew upon wings of tarpoulin Many moved on lunar whims, To a land of fable But came home to labour under unchanged hearts. The children spoke of fire born of wood A ragged gathering did wage A war only a fool would treasure Against a foe, intrinsic. Ink came etched over skins of lamb Unworthy sireage bandied verbage In halls built on burgled lands Dreaming still the dreams of parentage. Then came the expansion, black fur fell To migrant refuse On promises spoke with hollow hearts For treasures painted in that the Westward horizon’s tease. That hungry landscape swallowed whole Those who moved, into myth and fear They sought to know their passions found And could only see those wonders, through the eyes they brought. Spanish stones were raised to house the unloved In secret cells of provincial recluse, they had forgiveness To exist for a time yet, distant and aware Save tyrant’s ire and cannon fire. And here I am In hope and lineage On shoulders long withered Over hands, coward and brave. And here I scrawl, My Age In hope and futility With ancestral fervor And driven by love, much most for love, lost. Ah, that hoary clock cares not About apathy and cynicism Ageless eyes move relentless, through age and angst. But for me, over all And after thus. It was for me enough For you. -C.A.Wooding. Written December 6th, 1999 © on Jan 02 2002 05:45 PM PST   0 • 8