From a piece of wood he found from Noah's ark
And with the inspiration of a song sounding in
The Throne room of God's heart-
And then-
History crucified the violin
All for the sake of art...
The firebird's face was like a chamber where the sun
Shed His evening rays then lies still
To briefly rest before wandering on
To another place behind some hill
His features these of which no one can forget
His eyes, his feathers every one
The literature not written the poetry not yet
And all things as yet undone.
My body was broken in his flame
Like that of a woman's heart for some man-
I became a windsong without a name
Aimlessly wandering across wasted land
Feeling neither love nor pain
And carrying a rose between my strings
Through dry hot days without rain
No wind no light and no sound
No hope no dream no loss no gain
Nor cold sweet water bubbling underground.
To be continued
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