and no one knows who killed the King
                or the two princes by his side...

Ray fading, dying. With him dies
a nation's truth--tongue-tied by law
& lawlessness. Must we forfeit the prize
those granite spaces, stony swords     foresaw?

If underlying all--conspiracy!
Low somber bells drone on--     a slow fado
for dissonant & dusty empires...     O     mercy
upon us all     (the moon     bleeds into snow).

Some sailor's heaven     is not vanity.
Her Florentine chessboard     shall be your bond,
Hamlet's plywood sword     your surety.
In pentagonal &     penetrating sound

the ring of truth     will wring out tyranny--     &
plow the plowers back (so these bells     prophesy).


Henry Gould | Island Road 71
Contents | Mudlark No. 6