Prayers
Our words are mortal words.
They fail;
divided,
they break upon the worldly wave;
contingent,
they die,
nor all your wit and will
can one word save.
And when to holy gods
we use our words to pray,
they fail,
the mortal never rising up
to pure immortal realms.
An impure sacrifice,
they almost desecrate,
almost corrupt,
what we in prayer would say.
Can any words we pray
give forth a goodly scent?
Will the smoke ever rise?
Or are we forever broken-tongued,
telling truth with lies?
The one holy sacrifice,
O folk of sincere hearts,
the only gift fit for gods,
would be a god;
the only prayer fit for heaven
would be spoken by a god.
You must pray,
do not doubt it;
even in words you must pray,
but know your place:
when you pray,
let gods pray to gods,
and you,
O good-willed heart,
be still,
be small,
be awed.
A Demon's that Is Dreaming
Fire in the darkness,
blackness in the fire,
are glinting in the shadows
without desire:
alien intelligence
cold and coolly far,
and in the mocking eye
a fallen star.
Winds upon the ashes
stir within an eye,
a pupil full of spirit
but no sigh,
staring, all uncaring,
hostile, unconcerned,
a shadow that is burning
but not burned.
