The rolling rumble, resonating through the clouds

above echoes the deep unsettling roar of some past

ancient giant, his breaths core-shaking strums.

An old and mighty rainstick shakes with vigor, its

beads falling rhythmless and forming a staccato–

showering the earth in pricking needles.

The strong brave the sharp prodding without second-

guessing the might that comes with defying

old Eurus’ unrelenting and dissonant barrage;

others, much weaker, hide their covered heads

under seamless shingled roofs, not

daring to face the stormy awe.

(Sitting in a study) blinds open and revealing me

a battered window, glass streaked by shards

cutting through the twilight sky as the old god’s

songs play once more, unintelligible to mortal ears.

Strong or weak, all must hear the music, its drones

carrying towards the fields all men head to but

none can reach. Not I, for with strong will and weak

walls do seek to listen to Eurus’ age-old voice,

to understand the dissonant and rhythmless measures

that mark man’s life –guide towards a resting beat.

When the music no longer carries me, but is

carried within me, then I will know not

the stormy foam it brings,

but the peaceful wake it leaves behind