Trumpet


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.)

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