Quixotic King
Here comes with power
the Lord God,
Who rules by His Strong Arm.
Arm strong with sword
of broken spirit's power.
Tilting. Tilting at
uncomprehending windmills,
This man of sorrow. Facing
Merciless hatred's winding hour
turning, turning, turning,
In sweep of envy, haughty laughter,
banal mock, indifferent men
who know not what they do -
Yet do it.
Round and round - shouts cry
Come down! Come down!
Tilt not in mad, defeated grief
Tilt not! Come down and
we'll believe!
A roll of dice, a sponge to lips
that promise Paradise.
Til all is finished.
And windmill's sudden - cease.
Caught fast by nail to flesh to wood
In shape of sign
That shall be contradicted.
O Quixotic King
who came, who fought, who conquered
turning world of logical despair
to hope, to life, to majesty.
with broken spirit's power,
with wretched death,
in scandalous defeat.
Grant me this sword
To tilt, to fight, to know
the madness of your grace;
That tilting thus,
I win the honor of your house.
- Denise Trull
No comments:
Post a Comment