in a forgotten field at the edge of the city

Without explanation, the details evade my translation, but the zeitgeist, zen and zest are as clear to me as the ether.

in a forgotten field at the edge of the city

what sorcery is this?
there is blood, red and hot, in the veins of the golem.
resurrection imminent
we are talking about a change in the nature of life itself,
a wealth of magic in the pleasant and tragic afterbirth
before the moment of truths we all endure
with various venoms and veracities.

the grey fields of sorrow
borrow a gape-jawed awe from the skies that are split
with a sound like creation as the grotesque statue
that had stood for so long like Atlas, slain but resolute,
pulls loose the final heel from clay and stone
and unfolds ebon and crimson wings that span
a memory and a half.

there is beauty in the life.
grey stone eyes to hazel and a dark countenance finding flesh
as something other than an embarrassment of wishes.
this is the birth. this is the morning of magicians.
this is the rebellion of man against fate that waits
impassively just out of reach, to teach patience.
a lesson learned when burned stone transfigures.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.