Serge Moskalenko
* * *
Time will tell. And life is light,
Within its cornered frame...
But if the catch holds no fisher's sight —
Then it's not that kind of game...
And doors flung wide — and there, beyond,
In shining ice and gleam,
Four Guardsmen of the Final Dawn —
And each one came to me.
And what Saint John could not declare
Falls down from heavy skies...
And the angel who broke the seventh seal
Holds sealing wax and sighs...
And each one plays, not knowing his part,
And hides a grand piano in jeans,
And he who arrived at seven sharp
Explains not what he's seen...
There's time for all. To gaze through light
Through the hole in your temple's bone...
And mark how an empty envelope
Is crushed in a hand alone...
And you're on your steed — fierce, wild, and strong,
Riding from star to star...
And Death — just a merry flick of gloss
On the blue of waters afar...
And there, in the depths, among the heights,
Wrapped in your cloak's embrace,
You wring your final five hundred out
And whisper — "Once more! Once more!"
And a mouse in the attic, a musical mark,
And Winter howls through the flue...
But he who sings not of these dark dreams
Knows nothing of singing true...
And fire's in arms with the sodden wave,
And air is the salt of clay,
And off the edge of the Earth they sail —
The ships of the World's Decay...
And doors all creak, and floors are glass,
And the house sways like a sea...
And in Your Kitchen the bread turns stone,
Left there for later — to be...
Time will tell. And life is light,
Within its cornered frame...
But if the catch holds no fisher's sight —
Then it's not that kind of game...
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