The Western Gate Poem by Ralph Vaughan

The Emperor nears the horizon,
The Guide awaits his approach
Scroll in hand,
Dark like river mud;
Above, whispers a starry band;
The Lion rises, shakes off millennial sand,
Slinks from the temple square to encroach
Upon the Crocodile's scales,
And the River-Horse mutters warnings dire
In portent, looking to the sloping portal;
What are those flashing eyes, green fire -
Green like the Sun over the World Mountain;
The Lion backs off as the chthonic lord appears,
Rising from the shrine of the Earth's four pillars;
Eyes avert, downcast eyes, red with blood,
Red like the bright river at dusk;
The Emperor unfurls the proffered scroll
And reads words long committed to rote,
Reads as if to save his wretched soul,
Reads, and watches a polydactyl hand of an animal-headed god,
Grasp an electrum war-mace with which even a god may be smote
Much less a shivering naked mortal seeking the Portal
With mere winged words and memorized incantations
That were old when the gods were young and vital,
Now only dimly recalled in the riverbank pavilion.
Finally, when all the words are said, the deeds done,
The faded gods nod and smile and yearn for primal days
When they filled the sky and all bowed;
Ages gone, lost forever, but still they open wide the Western Gate
To admit the Emperor of Dust,
And sigh.