Trumpet Cries
Our dreams are tinctured with divinity.
A poet or a genius seizes them
And recognizes their affinity
To dawn. A lover leans to touch the hem
That passes by her in her crippled need.
Philosophers, Hypatia-like, reveal
Inherent beauties like a knowing seed,
A kernel of the truth and the ideal,
But murders haunt horizons of our dreams.
Not every vision is transposed to day.
There is the final blood of spectre screams,
Of sunsets into death, of gods seeking prey.
Our night dreams and our reveries are strained
By Jesus and his nails. Our minds are stained.