Epic Poetry Part 5 Poem by C.D. Xiang

I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

Here the is Heaven


Fingers glide, smoothing, etching
chisels, hammers, all moving
a painters brush dips again
brought up to the ceiling
ladders reach to the topmost part
the last detail not forgotten
handcrafted glass windows
shine shifting colors
across the floor
each raised to the top
to finish the masterpiece
tiny knives cut detailed sculptures
bringing beauty to life
sculptures of intricate design
long thought out and practised
hundreds of artist work togethor
to bring one man's visions to life
finally finished the creater steps back
the sight, breathtaking
this time he knows he has created
exactly what he hoped
a little piece of heaven
intricate and beautiful
so that one could stare at it
and never want ot leave
for here there is peace
here there is beauty
here there is heaven

Shades of Grey, Fans of Fate

They come here with bowed heads,
In humbleness
Seeking for something
Beyond themselves.
They keep their eyes glued
To a marble floor,
Make the Sign of the Cross
And send aloof a prayer.
Have they never seen
What lies above them all,
The fans that make the pattern
That lines the skylight?
In shades of grey,
Light and dark—
So very much like
What goes on inside—
The struggle within them?
Nothing in this world
Is carved in stone,
Black and white,
It’s just the way things are.
The fans' circular patterns
Tell the tale
“The truth shall set you free.”
But first you have to look up
Take a chance and behold
How the shades of grey
Focus your vision
Upon the center,
A colorful prize.
There is hope beyond hope—
There is joy beyond tears—
There is life when death comes calling—
Shades of grey,
Wiggle room—
If you can believe beyond all that you see:
At the center of the Fans of Fate
A Prize awaits you…
Immersed in perfection,
result of interaction
between genius and idle hands
(why would one wonder
at the beauty of things
if one was not rendering oneself
useless?)

There it is,
up high,
where human beings are not allowed.
We were not given wings.
We were not given anything;
we created love, and hate,
and all the shades of feeling
in between.

We created this,
this mesmerizing hymn to symmetry
this sage, century-old, all-seeing circle
mercilessly judging who is fit
to look it in the eye.

He are grand, as grand as it,
As grand as all the things in every earthly land
Built by beings such as ourselves.
We didn't have wings, we created them
And so we can fly, soaring high
even higher than the scrupulous, hideous, monstrous ceiling
envying us with all its feeling.
all flesh is as light
two thousand golden apples
are a memory

a cross encircled
did the unremembered laugh
Celtic to the last?

grey flowers display
masons bow beneath the sky
that their hammers wrought

shield ringed with fire
eight gates pierced with light above
what rough beast was made?

pilgrimage ends here
the century's weary hands
play a nave of swords

old stone holds old air
a thousand years of sainthood
stained glass, empty vaults

shielded from the sky
this sanctity will survive
the meaning of god

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