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Where now

 

The mist enthralled horn

 

Of the sacred bull

 

In the morning snow?

 

Where the circling stair of dawn,

 

Lost in the clouded mountain

 

Heights.  Gone.

 

Fled from the grinding cars

 

Of destruction.

 

Gone.

 

Yet still,

 

The winged bull

 

Did not die.

 

He waits on the far hill,

 

Beyond the last constellation

 

Of the sky,

 

His gold hoof pawing the thin air,

 

His breath

 

Smoking,

 

Waiting,

 

For the downfall of the masters

 

Of death,

 

For the undoing

 

Of the king of disasters,

 

Waiting to regain

 

His half-forgotten

 

Realm, that the lakes of the full

 

Moon may smile again,

 

Where

 

The heron

 

Walks on her silver toe

 

Across deep pools of stars.

 

 

 

© Sharon St Joan, 2013, written in 2007

 

 

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