The Return


When the great ones return

Raining magic from their wings,

Then only the white teeth

Of the concrete kings

Will glimmer

In the pool of death,

By the cool urn.

Nothing else will fall on the stone,

No one slain,

But only

The bitter echo

Of lies,

And even

The pot

Of tattered tales

Of yore,

All misbegot,

Will be shred

And gone.

Towers overturn

When the green waves rise,

Bearing the emerald throne,

Then the majesty of the deep,

Will cast off the oppressor,

And deliver


From its gray-nodding sleep,

Long bewitched in the chronicles of error.

Now the nimble goat

Slips her tethers,

To skip again on the grass-enchanted height


The boundless skies,

At one with spirits of the living tide.

The throat

Of the lion of wisdom

Will rumble anew;

The rain

Of Indra will crash from

The chariot of thunder,

When the forests reawaken to reclaim the earth.

Nothing will be lost then,

Only the mirror of untruth

Will crack and shatter,

When wolves dance on the hillside,

There where tigers roam, growling

In the darkness;

Their bright



Along the holy way of the night,

When spirits return

In the white magic of winter,


On the howling

Winds of joy, in the songs of sunrise;

In victory, horses of snow


In stride,

Across the broad plain.

Leaving in their wake only the stillness

Of the lily of eternity

Waving in the sunlit rain,

For the truly living do not die,

But only the walking, dissonant dead,

What is will be

And what is not

Has never been;

The leaves are one with the eternal tree,

Where peacocks,


Watch intently in the blue


Beyond the rim of history,

The great winged mother

Shakes the dust of opals from

Her feathers,


Her wanderlings,

The garbling geese

And their errant


The trees of twisted juniper,

The moon-radiant


And all her children,

Into her many-storied home of peace

By the green-banked river

In the haunting bells of dawn.

© Sharon St Joan, August, 2013


Photo: © Conorwaldock /



Leave a Reply