The Lute

I heard a damsel with her lute
reclaim the lost song of the soul;
into the wind she poured each note,
each in pursuit and fleet pursuit
of each—plucked chords, and cadence smote,
and light to light called out, and stole
within the breached walls of my soul,
the sleep of ancients on my soul—

And on the still face of my moat
the sunlight tangled in each trill,
and dances played upon her lute,
and dances played upon the moat,
each in pursuit and fleet pursuit,
passing the water’s face, to spill
through fractured walls where all was still,
and when it faded, all was still
within the breached walls of my soul—

Each in pursuit and fleet pursuit,
they gently grazed the chantry bell,
beneath her chords its pitches float;
under the fragrance of her lute,
sweet on the breeze, to vaults remote,
to dungeons where my people dwell,
down to the very vaults of hell,
from door of doom and hall of hell,
through fractured walls where all was still,
within the breached walls of my soul—

—Lynn Michael Martin

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