Log in

No account? Create an account

per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
mad props (and apologies) to Archibald MacLeish


The sunlight slants upon the green,
Macaws are calling in the trees;
In light and shade and in-between,
The ghosts are riding on the breeze.

The visage of serene command
Stares out from stelae standing here,
Like fingers of the mighty hands
Of gods who now have disappeared.

The ceaseless beat of passing days
Is measured out in carven stone,
Intricate, entwined, ablaze
With litanies of blood and bone;

And words of rock cascading up,
Hissed from inverted serpent jaws,
Where scarlet filled the altar cup-
No brighter than the temple walls.

Soft shadow fills the western court-
The water of the underworld-
And all that stands below, apart
Is caught in seashell’s spiral twirl.

And underneath the layers fold
‘Round tunnels snaking through the ground,
Which holds the histories still untold
By hints of glories so far found.

And on the golden sunrise side,
The jaguars dance up from the night;
Deep roots of ceiba are the guide
So that the god may rise in might.

While from the ruined temple side
A wizened face’s smiling glance
Still casts a wry old cynic’s eye
Upon me as I stand entranced.

The sun is shining overhead,
All silent in the midst of day;
With whispers and with noiseless tread
The ghosts walk with me on my way.


  • 1
(Deleted comment)
  • 1