Benieth a sky of deepest blue,
As evening sunward goes,
I see the birth of something true,
As sharp as the thorn of a rose.
As Soft as moonlight; hard as steel,
Like silver laughter heard in rain,
Intangible yet stil more real,
Than hours that pass in thoughtless pain.
Familiar as my own right hand,
Like childhood melodies re-sung,
Like the safe and bounded land,
Where white clouds in blue skies are hung.
Yet strange as alien light that's seen,
from cracks within the magic door,
which leads to where no one has been,
And marvels only glimpsed before.
As a tiny song of silver red,
a single miner cord resounds,
And ever echoes in my head,
As in a seashell waves are found.
Yet upon the silver thrumming string,
It is not my hands that lie at rest,
Nor is it yet my christal spring,
or tiny stone of amythist.
Not from me the words in lace,
the thought as sweet as summer due,
Not from me the warm embrace,
All those things are gifts; from you.
And i can see them clear as glass,
burning bright and true as day,
And however dark all night must pass,
and all shadows at last flee away.
I don't forget the burning night,
the time of crashing dark desire,
when towers fell and ended light,
And you seemed a flame of poisoned fire.
and further darkness followed then,
but of that here I will not speak,
for all wounds heal; All must mend,
and not all roads are bare and bleak.
Yet benieth this indigo sky,
In last light of the setting sun,
at last the bleeding fires die,
and cross the deserts rivers run.
and in my thoughts a seed is sewn,
a spark of gold; a torch of flame,
something rare as worlds unknown,
And clear and real as light of day.
and time that like a turbid stream,
was strangled in a thousand reads,
Begins to flow a silver gleam,
And leave the place of falling shades.
"Go then, there are other worlds than these"