I

The purple mounts muses mingle on,
by Aurora’s opening the lid of the world,
Are ‘light with the the joy of the morn,
invisible but to the herald,
who trumpets out the coming of the all felt unseen,
by which the world all hurl’d
in the joy felt in what has been
and what is to come
in thrumming power of inspired’s lyres.
The gyres are reversed by their ken.
What has been mired shall be admired.
What was cooled shall be fired.
The weak, the meek, shall be made strong,
for all will be right, all, all wrongs.

Beyond the stony faces
of the once inspired
lie the purple mountains
waiting for the morn.

II

Shall some errant warrior poet
go to end our darkened night,
with his lightly stepping gait,
beyond the gate of the late muses
who play dead but for deaths pleasure
abandoning us to lunar wrath.

Or shall he sing to none but starless night,
in which the moon drinks dead the muses,
starved of sunlight to gyry wrath,
in which lunatics take vip’rous pleasure?
Drowning them, mer-death hears hippocampus’ gait.
Ride hippocampus! and carry our crown’d poet!

Carry home to Halycon our daemon muses.
Household gods, ancient mothers, give your pleasure
to thine own hero, this warrior poet,
who calls you by his Zarathustran’ dancing gait
and memory feats to defeat Oblivion’s wrath!
Let us not go into Kali’s cursed night.

Storm the Mer! What could give you more pleasure
than war against death? Measure mustang world. Gait
this globe, with bit, with stick, so blinded in night
it may know direction and, purposeful, stay wrath,
and not trample it’s guide, but by prophet-poet
know the route to carry home half-drowned muses.

Let us follow Borea’s gait,
it will lead us to green pastures, forget the wrath
of those who have no Logos, we’ve muses
to guide us. Heracliteans, are we poet?
Merged by theosis, no longer of Death’s night.
What could be of more unity than life’s pleasure!

The pure stormed with conqueror’s wrath
only by their loss of the garden, and the Poet
tells us they had found the moon, and the pleasure
lost of an ever-high sun. Oh woe of night!
For which none can make ready, which kills even muses,
and makes us lose the Boreal gait.

Wrath of the Poet kill the pleasure of night,
that we might walk again with the gait
of which the muses everlasting remind.

III

The lady of the lake drowns us all
drowns the sun, drowns in the fall
which hides the cave which holds the blade
which gods and lovers to us bade
we must not hold lest we die,
the lightning held for those born high,
but carry it we must, anointed by stone
black which called kings to reknown,
and now called to fight killers of the soul,
bear crown of flame, and heart of fuel,
which must itself be made a sun,
that we might chariot-bring the morn.
We pass through the fall. We call to arms,
We burn with the lightning blade. Alarms!
We move beyond death, past the waters, to the dark.
We emerge again, three days, chi-ral mark’d,
and we wage holy war on the night and its pelf.
We wage war on the cult of the self.
And beyond our selves we burn.