Greetings, Sir. You say you are Sleeping Vessel,
Hello. I’ll be the Testament of your last Will.
Like gods we’ll face the final creation
And the prayers of our congregation
Shall be heard in deeds and vows
And the Righteous Sinners of our House
Shall be happy at the supper of our bodies:
They feast and sing to hills and valleys.
Why do you seem afraid? This is but sleep.
O! What a slumber our souls shall keep.
And when the sign grows soundless
And the death rattles have found us
Like gods slain at our altars in a chorus
Of our light and of our darkness.
Outside your body there is a trembling
As you take this wine of blessing:
This is my blood of fiends at our harvest
And this is the sleep the Sun has promised.
And when the sigh grows silent,
Upon your body’s last fulfilment,
Though you may not know my name
Though my face be hidden to thy fate
Gone shall be the gods we became
Out of suns that falter in the hour late
Outside, the cathedral is burning
As with our final blessing
And in your honor,
an eidolon of your blood
Shall find its favor,
And I shall see that it is good.
© 2022 Marten Hoyle