by Pavel Chichikov
“Want a dreamworld? go to poppies,
This angel plays no lullabies,
My horn is fire to the quick
It sears and cinders happy lies”
A horn as tall as pinyon-leaves
Sprouting columns from his back,
The blinding polish of his trumpet
Shows our faces on its neck
The bell that stretches open-mouthed
Between horizon and the pole
Is bright enough to be a sun
And big enough to swallow Sol
It was before the universe
When God created him to be,
Now he fills his ocean lungs
And plays the sound of reveille
Truth resounding, resonating
Fills the sky from sea to sea
“Stand awake you little souls,
Wash your faces, come with me”
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)