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And the date of my death
was my embarkation.
III
Something there is
in the rudderless sailing,
abandoning hope
as the husk of desire,
architectures of boat and body
coalesce with the water
and the disburdening wind.
In the south, the sails filled with words
and the boat took wing
above the denial of waters.
Softly the wind spoke
under the pulse of the sails:
COME, ASTRALAS, RIDE INTO PROPHECY:
I AM THE BREATH OF A GOD,
the wind was saying,
THE SOURCE OF DREAMS
AND THE WEBWORK OF REASON.
ASTRALAS, OPEN YOUR ARMS:
I SHALL PASS THROUGH YOUR FINGERS
AS BRINDLED LIGHT,
AS A VISION FROM THE BROWS OF A WEARY KING.
HASTEN TO ISTAR, DOMED AND TEMPLED,
WHERE SUNLIGHT REFRACTS
ON BRONZE AND SILVER,
ON CRYSTAL AND BURNISHED IRON.
TEN VISIONS THERE
YOU SHALL READ AND INTERPRET,
IN THAT COMFORTABLE CITY
WHERE TRUTH WITHOUT PAIN
GOVERNS THE SPAN OF THE HAND,
GLITTERS LIKE MOONLIGHT
OVER IMMOVABLE WATERS.
BUT YOU, ASTRALAS,
IMPRESSED FOR YOUR TERRIBLE VOYAGE,
CANNOT MAKE TRUCE WITH THE WIND AND THE WATER
IN THE BREATH OF YOUR VEINS,
BECAUSE THEY ARE WITH YOU FOREVER
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