The rolling rumble, resonating through the clouds
above echoes the deep unsettling roar of some past
ancient giant, his breaths core-shaking strums.
An old and mighty rainstick shakes with vigor, its
beads falling rhythmless and forming a staccato–
showering the earth in pricking needles.
The strong brave the sharp prodding without second-
guessing the might that comes with defying
old Eurus’ unrelenting and dissonant barrage;
others, much weaker, hide their covered heads
under seamless shingled roofs, not
daring to face the stormy awe.
(Sitting in a study) blinds open and revealing me
a battered window, glass streaked by shards
cutting through the twilight sky as the old god’s
songs play once more, unintelligible to mortal ears.
Strong or weak, all must hear the music, its drones
carrying towards the fields all men head to but
none can reach. Not I, for with strong will and weak
walls do seek to listen to Eurus’ age-old voice,
to understand the dissonant and rhythmless measures
that mark man’s life –guide towards a resting beat.
When the music no longer carries me, but is
carried within me, then I will know not
the stormy foam it brings,
but the peaceful wake it leaves behind