Untitled Poem

IN SUPPLICATION, silent hands
Enclasp each watery crest, a prayer.
The driftwood, dried upon the shore
Must mourn — eternal monument
To thee, a King crown’d o’er them all —
In place of pillared marble stone.
Here gleams the graceful sun to rest
Upon the whistling winds of dusk.

Such wind does whisper, patiently
To any woman, child or man
This tale, this terror, I did bear
For all my waning wandering years
I wrested, dead, from weeping hands.

But come my careful, creeping death
This story, struck upon my brow
Must join these gentle, empty bones
And crumble, captured in its cairn.

O SILENT song! Yet sing again!
Escape this coward’s crumbling grasp!
Cry once again, of King and Crown;
Make bountiful a famished land.
We suffer; no one knows the way
For none remember hist’ry sweet.
I’ll bid these stones cry out your tale
And make a lie your final wish.

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