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Description
Let us strike the chord of desolation, the winds
Carrying cries of the gulls and the waves pounding like
A pulse on some Tyrhennian shore. Somewhere a boy learns that
Death comes for fathers and mothers and that
Life is perhaps not what he anticipated.

It's a sense of apocalyptic grandness, that those
Wide fields of promise may swallow you up, that
Alexander may come into the East and find that he is
But a drop in the ocean and that all is remade as of old
In his passing, that the hills will forget Greek feet and speak
In harsh guttural tongues of the dark mountain creches again.

Friend- roads crisscross this desert like the scrawlings of children in the dirt
Which is fearful, a harboring for death and scorpions, they are the
Coloring of tiny men who tremble in the eldritch light of stars so great
That the world is a dot of easily vaporized water, a puddle of a world.
Roads, friend, run over the desert, make the Unmade into the Halfmade
Mar it and pin possibility to the ground-- makes the earth groan with the
Weight of Decision-- but it must be. Those roads, so small, so out
So in the open they are always in the open open and expose, left to be
Watched and trod and spit on and time shall roll over them and when the suns
Burn and great things move and twist and hobble towards sacred sites to
Begin turnings of years, there will be roads in the Open.

Alone in the deep Open is a place where it is always near the close of Day.
Light is gone here, there is only dusk, the going of Light and Company-- the sun
Will not shine for one man.
Wide fields of promise un-pinned, and there is nowhere to go, like
Seneca's little loss ships with no wind.
There is something far too Open about the Open where no men are.

Description
Let us strike the chord of desolation, the winds
Carrying cries of the gulls and the waves pounding like
A pulse on some Tyrhennian shore. Somewhere a boy learns that
Death comes for fathers and mothers and that
Life is perhaps not what he anticipated.

It's a sense of apocalyptic grandness, that those
Wide fields of promise may swallow you up, that
Alexander may come into the East and find that he is
But a drop in the ocean and that all is remade as of old
In his passing, that the hills will forget Greek feet and speak
In harsh guttural tongues of the dark mountain creches again.

Friend- roads crisscross this desert like the scrawlings of children in the dirt
Which is fearful, a harboring for death and scorpions, they are the
Coloring of tiny men who tremble in the eldritch light of stars so great
That the world is a dot of easily vaporized water, a puddle of a world.
Roads, friend, run over the desert, make the Unmade into the Halfmade
Mar it and pin possibility to the ground-- makes the earth groan with the
Weight of Decision-- but it must be. Those roads, so small, so out
So in the open they are always in the open open and expose, left to be
Watched and trod and spit on and time shall roll over them and when the suns
Burn and great things move and twist and hobble towards sacred sites to
Begin turnings of years, there will be roads in the Open.

Alone in the deep Open is a place where it is always near the close of Day.
Light is gone here, there is only dusk, the going of Light and Company-- the sun
Will not shine for one man.
Wide fields of promise un-pinned, and there is nowhere to go, like
Seneca's little loss ships with no wind.
There is something far too Open about the Open where no men are.