Dust Of The Soul Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Dust of the soul, when it
Crumbled

Frost of the hands where
Ageing has begun printing
Furrows

Watch my son for the dusk
And then it be time
To enter the cemetery

Put on the spectacles of
Justice you will see

If during day you had pain
And had suffering

Otherwise let go, this
Time

Were you not
The prophet of the open plains
That glistened to the night
Of stars and moon
That by just past
Midnight
Formed a white-silver cross
Over the immense plain?


Short and stout in
Rejoicing
Was the wraith
That appeared at the
End of dusk
Beginning of the stars
And flow of night


My eyes be frozen
And
My eyes be leaden
It was the night
And it was the dusk
Before
Afterwards the dawn
Yet still
My eyes be frozen

I drunk and drunk
So large my thirst
I drunk the flagon
Of the Tired Wines
And eye-closing sub consciousness
I drank
I drank the flagon.

Still
Thrown
From the high heavens
As a meteorite
Down
Down
Minute meteorite
That fell
Down giddying heights
In Himalayas and their
Wetted snows.

White waxed
The face of the High Angel
As the graves opened
And
The inmates up
They stood
Silent and speechless:
For
White had waxed
The face of the High Angel.

Down
The spectacles of an Angel
Fell
Down
Down
Till on ledge of hummock snow
They stopped.

We are as of the warmth
Of the hearth \of cottage
In the woods
That Heart be called:
You heard?
That was the garrulous
Wise owl.


And
Littler further on
The nightingale sings
Her heart to the moon
As she willed.