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the test of time
“The hardest test in life is having the patience
to wait for the right moment.”—Unknown
the harpless strings could not be tuned,
the stringless harp severely ruined,
the muse as silent as the voice of death.
the birdless wings—no ecstasy,
the wingless bird—no majesty,
the song—no evidence of tuneful breath.
when in your heart there was no song,
my song without a heart was wrong;
my aria unmelodied, stone dead.
my lips could not refrain your mirth,
my mirth your ears save not from dearth;
your passion left my emptiness unfed.
my hopeless soul found no release,
my soulless hope bereft of peace;
my raging flames calmed not by lute or lyre.
a homeless world my domicile;
a worldless home, no guilt or guile
to cushion or arouse my deep desire.
no hope of word from circumstance,
no word of hope with you to dance;
no lyricked chant sent you me in the night.
no lack, my grave, e'er comatose;
no grave my lack dare interpose,
till i am fully ransomed from my plight.
cornered and dark, yet shall i rise;
dark-cornered man, hungry for skies:
precipitous the mountains i must climb.
the rest of day, wherein i grope,
the day of rest my blessed hope,
when love shall triumph o'er the test of time.
Copyright 2021 November 04
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
to wait for the right moment.”—Unknown
the harpless strings could not be tuned,
the stringless harp severely ruined,
the muse as silent as the voice of death.
the birdless wings—no ecstasy,
the wingless bird—no majesty,
the song—no evidence of tuneful breath.
when in your heart there was no song,
my song without a heart was wrong;
my aria unmelodied, stone dead.
my lips could not refrain your mirth,
my mirth your ears save not from dearth;
your passion left my emptiness unfed.
my hopeless soul found no release,
my soulless hope bereft of peace;
my raging flames calmed not by lute or lyre.
a homeless world my domicile;
a worldless home, no guilt or guile
to cushion or arouse my deep desire.
no hope of word from circumstance,
no word of hope with you to dance;
no lyricked chant sent you me in the night.
no lack, my grave, e'er comatose;
no grave my lack dare interpose,
till i am fully ransomed from my plight.
cornered and dark, yet shall i rise;
dark-cornered man, hungry for skies:
precipitous the mountains i must climb.
the rest of day, wherein i grope,
the day of rest my blessed hope,
when love shall triumph o'er the test of time.
Copyright 2021 November 04
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
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