When the great ones return


Carrying magic in their wings


Then only the white teeth


Of the concrete kings


Will glimmer


In the pool of death.


Nothing else will sleep


On the stone,


No one slain,


But only


The echo of lies,


The din of malice,


Shed and gone,


When the green waves rise,


Bearing the emerald throne,


The majesty of the deep


Will deliver


Those long forgotten


Hooves of the innocent


To ride


Again on the mountain height,


Spirits of the living tide,


The throat of the lion of wisdom


Will rumble anew,


The rain


Of Indra will crash from


The chariot of thunder,




The forests reawaken to reclaim the earth,


Nothing will be lost then,


Only the masks of terror,


Only the mirrors of untruth,


When wolves dance on the hillside,


And tigers growl


In the blue




With bright eyes that burn


Along the holy way


Of the night,


When spirits return


In the white magic of winter,




On the howl


Of the winds of joy, the songs of sunrise,


In the victory of the horses of fire and snow


That break


Unstoppable, across the broad plain.


A storm to leave in its wake


Only the stillness


Of the lily of eternity


Waving in the sunlit rain,


For the truly living do not die, they say,


But only the walking, dissonant




Only the soulless


Patterns of dismay.


Only the clouds ashen,


When the cosmic, winged mother


Gathers the wanderlings,


The flocks


Of garbled geese


And their errant goslings,


Among the trees of twisted juniper


And the radiant




Bundling all her children,


Into her many-storied home of peace


By the green-banked river


In the haunting bells of dawn.



© Sharon St Joan, 2017


Photo: © Elisa Bistocchi / Dreamstime