by Pavel Chichikov
Out of fire, mud and breath
Flame congealed they diced their death,
To those who had been given much
Loss of sight and loss of touch
Hear it, how the bandsmen play
To beat the sun and rise of day
Fife and tympany and horn
The Lord of music is reborn
Hours gallop, shadows prance
Around the sun to see it dance
Those are horses in the clouds
Who trample them, their hooves are loud
None can read a spinning die
Who have no center to an eye,
And nothing can a thrower win
Without eternal blood or skin
Or eyes to see a jasper town
Descending red to be re-found,
Ears to know the crash of sea
Wager for a surety
But those who scramble in the dirt
To win a coarse and ragged shirt
Will not look up although they should
To see two lengths of bloody wood
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
