strong
the notes upon the dulcimer are you
the notes transposed will make an evil chord upon the ground
and the lay of the circle is with certainty broken
and the lines pursue the horizon of oblique are gone far away
gone far from this land of brown tilth and its loam of reason
wherin reason grows matures and its harvest gold like gold
and green like green and plenteous, bounteous, beautiful
triplets hung with one note suspended in the rill
and the second Delphic hymn
like tiny hollows in the cavities of emotion
a small plant grows and cracks the hardened sand in which its
deceit is placed placated by the envy of the sun and moon
whose tiny roots have nothing nothing but a passing love
for love is art
true love is art
a passion that shakes the very prickling nerves
that shakes the chest with joy
that tears the limbs with ecstatic tingling
few will ever know
for art is living art
embodied in the soul it is not a joy thats trully divided
up and lent
you may think you feel it
vicarious in your dotted lines upon the Delphic stone
and upon the air that brings the sharp tones
of dulcimers across the distant waves
but you do not have it
for you are weak
and i am strong
and i am brave
and i am daring
i can know my soul
but you are weak
and even the very death will never part
you from yours