Song Poem by Henry Antony

She sang a song for me;
The hush of nights, and the slow pulse of creation,
Slowed in contemplation of her song.

To join the living with the dead,
To exhale with the soft breath of the earth,
The wilting breath of the air.

Paint or rip fiery gashes in the solemn sky,
Strip the lie told by our eyes,
Remove the canvas of perception

From this solemnised world we stress
To vocalise. The streams of thoughts,
From the quicksilver piccolo of man,

To the sombre musings of the forests,
Who take a century to reveal the truths
Of their conceptions,

All ceased to flow, all stopped in time;
Hung like the wings of a butterfly,
Ragged like the nightmare edge of a storm.