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