Embers of passion smoulder in my dark heart;
awaiting the breath of a minstral wind
when flame and shadow will dance their part,
until the curtain of ashes again descend
upon the inevitable end.
Let me hear the hammering hooves
of moonmaned mustangs
rising like dust on the Great Plains.
Let me hear the drums of destiny
and the wailing siren-song
of wanderlusting freight-trains.
Embers of passion smoulder in my dark heart;
remembering words of ambiguous smoke
that formed with serendipitous art,
like zero blown with zero til they broke
showing but a sophomoric joke.
Let me hear the thundering words
of Christopher Marlowe
crying the charge of Tamerlane.
Let me hear the tale of blind Homer
of the windy plain of Troy
where heroes large as gods were slain.