Tuesday, May 12, 2009

अंकल अल Twelve

Uncle Al Twelve 10,000 Fates

Upon the brown grass hill
Sit faded white wooden crosses
Home to 10,000 fates
The last stop on life's express
Southern winds cry through Christ
Upon the wall of a Sullen church
The fates cry out, eyes they close
The prayer wheel spins upon a single prayer
The crosses fade with passing time
The weeds grow upon them
Burying them in sorrow
10,000 fates echo in the air
Their song a distant rumble
Like thunder on the horizon
Like a chill in the darkness
Distant yet close
His hand carves upon the rock
His voice their voice
His heart, their heart
Words forever cast in fate
Fate in hand
Hand on pen

The fates pass sentence
Like Lazarus from the dead
Rising their judgment
From the empty depths
Spirit once broken, now mended
Cobbled together from flesh and bone
Songs once sung now hang
Like rotting fruit upon the vine
Sullen and fallen
Completing this cycle
This mortal dance
Meaningless words
Gather meaning from dust
As he grasps his pen
A magic wand of illusion
Spinning tale from dirt
Carving song from tradion
Telling the story of 10,000 fates

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