Who shall exonerate the fallen?
in the Walls of ancient History,
unspoken Time in Lore
that cannot reach the ears.
There is fury in the stone, yes,
the fiery red ruby glowing
with its perfect flare and rapture.
Life is a series
of twists into the agony of breeze,
the excruciating finale
at whose helm is the endless, solemn Song,
the last declaration, the upended Eternity.
I have become the miserable emerald,
caught between these poles
of the looping darkness and the dread
who heralds the End. But
the crests of waves
carry the dazzling Light of a billion Stars;
the wayward stern of the Crimson Ark
flashing in the Sun
I have beheld
as strange as myself,
O solitary ruin,
O infinite rejoical, I am thine
to be celebrated—God,
I am Thine to be killed,
shattered upon the surface
at the bottom of the depths
to be changed again someday,
when we have come at last unto the End,
and I am raised, and I am bled,
my glimmering green a robe,
my adornment of honesty
as fresh as the weeping globe
whose places, all, we tread,
partaking of Death,
brazen chalice of the King,
the very Essence of the Queen.