The Wordless Song
If Hope is the thing with feathers
Then I am its silvery cage,
And I hold all the scribbles and writings
That my Hope has returned to the page.
The singing is soft and devoted,
A quiet, benevolent theme.
It fills up the glorified bird cage
Like a sleepy and somnolent dream.
The tune is a sorrowful silence
That drifts in a limitless grace.
And I know that it never stops singing,
Lest my soul by its wishes erase.
I could never continue without it,
This beautiful, radiant bird.
For it carries my love and emotion
And changes them into a word.
The Passer-ThroughOnce upon an autumn night,The Passer-Through3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When children danced in deep delight,
Stood a man upon the bed
Of grinning, splitting leaves.
Step by step he made his way
throughout the streets of child's play.
Ev'ry creature turned to see
And not a word was said.
His eagle eyehe had but one
Scanned the slowly setting sun,
Scrutinized and glanced upon
The people in the street.
Ev'ry man who met his gaze
Quickly flinched and looked away
For on his bristly, brutal cheek
A mark of vice was set.
Deep the bitter scar was etched,
From his eye to lip was stretched.
From his lips a snarl would stem
When someone stopped to stare.
Hurried in the children were,
Hushed behind a guarded door.
"Hide you must from demons who
will make-believe a man."
Happy streets of youthful glee,
Empty then except for he,
And of course the little girl
Who ran to match his stride.
"Who are you?" she asked in light
--all the parents gasped in fright.
But the scarred and scary man
Simply slowed his step.
He turned to fac