Book of Daniel

 

We wait, we yearn, we slip ever further from

the dream. Your mighty kings sleep unpronounceable

in the concordance, your vast empires become

crosshatched traces on an inset map, troubles

buried. Fishing for the thunder of waves yet

unrolled, our stiffened fingers bring up empty nets.

 

But you, choice of kings, chosen of God, what dreadful

parleys charmed the beasts, muzzled their bloodlusts?

What surrendered faith could wrestle time's snake, fed

on its own tail, and grace you shrouded trust

of recompence and whispered patterns of the weave;

what sun blazed your eye and made men believe?

 

We read: an eye like yours, clear and curved just so

could focus all light -- future, present, past -- and burn

blindness from the world eye. But cataracts grow

thick again; we cock our heads for tremors, then turn

to our own echoes . . . and hungry eyes gleam

at us. We wait, we yawn, we sleep -- but do we dream?

 

© Michael Fleming

Granada, Spain

October 1984

 

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