by Damascena

when the great ones walk,
however lightly,
the path becomes luminous
from their merest touch,
as if it were a single, narrow winding hearth
glowing from old fires.

and when they fly,
the sky is filled with song,
so well remembered,
as in a dream of children
calling through twilight.

the islands drift and change
beyond our seeing.

sorrow and splendor
in the hazed mirror forming
may cleave our souls in two:
oh! may we be strong and whole
this night, for danger
rides with the Hunt, and we
are not disguised
but by our shadows.

the black swan flies.

may tears be dried by hands unseen,
may our true faces shine
fearless, wondering........

the gates are open.

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