They have withered.
The crumbling giants,
With hats hung, hefty pockets, and
Swollen skulls—all teeth and
Smiles—weighing heavy on their
Pale, blind giants who shudder at
The distant light.
They are the dead, the numbed,
Those tired souls who forgot that
We knew her once—in a dream
In wilted reflections, the passing recollection
Of an ancient cadenza, of a staggering dance.
We, the dying, feel the fragrant pain
And each flower blooming in the night
Stirs a sleeping passion to life,
A longing for the shadows of her light.
We watch the giants as we pass
They wade deep and slow in
The emptiness of Lethe and drink
To years forgotten.
We trudge on by the legion with their
Pitted eyes and feet, black clay.
We shudder at poor Yorick’s deathly brigade.
I, a nighttime fantasy, seek her out like stories
Of the sun.
“At the bottom of a darkened well,”
I’ve heard it said she dwells. Or perhaps
“At the end of the moonlit path.”
We know her palace is of radiant gold,
We dwell in nocturne eternal.
Yet on we travel
by reflections and distant gasps of light.
We, the dying among the dead,
She, eternal fire.
“I saw her once—on the horizon.”
“She stood with Death.”
“Her shroud the sun.”
But though I search, I have only
Found her fleeting echo in the still river,
The blackened lilies,
The silver mirror in the sky.
Taunting solace, elusive bride,
I tail her. Like a famished hound,
The Wild Hunt rides through currents of the sky.
They, the dead, the smiling, bone dry corpses
Call on winds for me to come
And drink with them to oblivion
As they, pale giants of the fall,
Crumble into nothing.
Life, again, in the endless night
Or death in blackened waters.
We are lost, and she
Has left us here to wander.
Damned to thirst and damned to dream,
We cannot live without the chase.
We yearn for Truth, our lover.