The Last Song

 

This is the last song that I shall ever sing:
A cadence to the skies that hold the swelt clouds
E’er with utero-bairn of scorching rain,
To let free that child of thund’rous eccho
And have it born upon a borderland
That prays for icen shards and martyrdom
Of Ophelia’s calm, drowned innocence.

This song is for the shores of bless and Heaven:
It shall see the end of marks upon the clock
As is ushered in the bravest era,
Whence pathology and ambition’s tide
Were carried forth as a seasonal bourn,
And weighed upon the shoulders of alb time.

The last song is for Hypnos, sleeping tight:
As for now he dreams only for himself,
And all other dreams are gone. They are not dead—
For a thought can only truly ever live
In the brainpan stream of evocacy
Wrought from a Christ’an child wise beyond years.

So shall that thought wreak more than my last song:
So shall that symphony o’ertake my ditty;
The childe’s harmony is thunder’s reverb
Upon the peak of everdreaming’s tilt—

Unlike my chant, it shall forever live;
Bring the swollen mists of skye’s replete womb
To the crooked apse of dryed riverbed:
Gust the pews with worthy lioness milk!

This is the last song I shall therefore sing:
I kneel aside for Ophelia’s life;
I die so she may live, it is my all
To lose all sight and taste for one so pure.
For time is ever-changèd, and marv’ling—
Dazzling scopes of future vistas, birth-right
Of the New Daughter: so comes the kind rain,
Apocalyptically altruistic,
To wipe all clean for the Age of Virgo.

 

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