1 minute reading time (181 words)


When they flew in that sublime formation

On driven, flurried wings

Above the rough-edged rushes,

I dreamt—I dreamt of the radiance of souls,

Children of the morning,

Nourished in the warm twilight of eternity

Opening their luminous wings

To endless flight;


Memories of younger woods, a younger earth

Sang to me of old wars, old loves,

The undefiled children of nameless eons

Children of demons and kings,

Starborn and pure,

Golden voices ranged against sky and meadow

Endlessly raveling the threads of heaven,

In rain and wind,

In summer storms,

In sweet smiles,

Sighs, tears,

In the careless power of a wilderness

Bursting with desire—

Poets on wings!

Mailed warriors charging in frieze after frieze

Flashing by, no heavier than gossamer

Or primroses at sunset;


Over the stark white beeches they went,

Four in a row, passing that ridge

Beyond the skyline of

Crenellated mountains,

Climbing the waterfalls,

Their hoarse cries hanging

Between the recumbent by-lanes

Of sleeping forests;


They were gone, then,

Soon gone the swift birds—

If birds they were—sped their way

As arrows from a black, tensile bow.

The Quetzal in my dreams
New Exodus (Syria 2016)

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