Plunged in night- black as raven’s wing
The power of force moved in a curved path
Light dawned upon when he started to sing
And mystery danced in joy of Sabbath
Cheeks paled; lips dried with fear
Holy smoke from Sherlock’s pipe
When I was slain by my own hands here
Brain crawled for the time was ripe
To open the closed circle of thought
Confronted steep, dark, deepening gloom
Verses of comfort begged me not to rot
For that kindest soul my spirit in bloom
My oath upon the Book of Ruth
I, in debt, to that Arch Angel there
Who healed the wound and fought for truth
Heaven opened wide and we loved to dare.
Written on the morning of the 8th of May,2010
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem