Evening Star Poem by Peter Eliastam

And who could question or mistake the thing?
It felt as though a vagrant wind’s wing brushed
Our dormant senses to awakening
With terrible zeal, and zest of spice crushed.

Can there be something fragrant in grinding
Grief’s unspoken words, memories unhushed
And inconsolable with soul-blinding
Sorrows, tomorrow’s cruelties unrushed?

Fear’s nausea, hope’s margins narrowing
Beyond unquiet pain, to limit pushed;
Its instrumental tooth-prongs harrowing
These clods of body, desolate and bushed.

Faith almost orphaned, paled at evening,
Ploughed under deep beneath an anguish flushed
With heat of unremitting pressuring;
Till sunset saw its Master’s face, and blushed.