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If in a time of aching need,
I should stretch my voice in your direction --
don't spur your horse.
When the storms of inner and outer days make havoc dance upon my
soul,
I sometimes scream against the music,
when all I look for in return is an echo,
a sounding that affirms your presence.
The universe presses its cold and stifling emptiness
upon a miserable planet,
and sometimes all I can feel is alone.
When it is only sensation I lack,
I need no dragon slain, nor villains set ablaze.
Do not charge headlong into the night, waving a red flag.
I do not want the sacrifice of your aims, your hours, your sacred
words --
I seek only to know that other tongues taste this air,
that other hearts are awake in the midnight cold.
Call out, then, when you hear my cry;
ignite your beacon on the hill.
Shout your primal name to the stars and make yourself real for me
--
it's all I am asking for, when I bend my voice your way.
By Catherine Munro
(ARTSLAVE) |
