The place of dark cloaks worn tight.
To the blinking stars
Glinting like the edge of silver bars.
To the painter’s brush
That smeared a colorful thrush
On the early morn
And the even’ when the dark is born
To the maestro of songs
Beating birds awake with the gong
Stringing weaves in trees
Raises drums and sets thunder free
To the sea shepherd
The herder of the flowing scabbard
He whistled schools strait
And drew space between prey and bait
To the queen of hearts
To man’s tit she has a certain tart.
The worlds are her bundle
She takes naught to make kings humble.
Written by: Chileh Pedro
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.