Decrees of a dead tongue gone,
The flicker of Greek in the vernacular,
An age for the East and Yoga,
For lotus and resting. One word
Cannot be spoken or carved.
If music suggests it, it erred.
Christ in this age you are nameless,
Your praises and slanders have sunk
To oaths. Love has somehow slipped by
What once throbbed in an occupied sky.
In my stanzas I’ll only allow
The silence of a tripped tongue,
The concerns and cries of creation
To hold you, as always, but more now.
The Prophets and all their books prosper,
But here as a Christmas comes closer,
Awe will be speechless, and magic
Be dropped like an acrobat’s pitfall.
The absence, the emptiness echo,
A girl with a cradle to borrow.