A poem concerning Christ as the Curator of the Art of Creation,
that very Curator that lives in the secret world of the soul.
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Angels, Megara, The Christ \\ Creation of the stars, Makrinos Monastery |
Bride with
countenance so pale,
Peeks as moon through cloud-laced veil.
Blazing sun
groom’s complexion,
Shines with red-hot affection.
Shy purple
forest expose,
As milk-blue dawn-sky glows.
Virgin’s
rosy cheek does blush,
As dusk from flirting night’s hush.
Moist
sanct’ry cave dew-weeps drops,
Which quench fine moss carpet’s locks.
Spring-meadow’s
mirror does gaze,
Whilst tadpole dance-pupils wave.
Autumn
leaves rain-pirouette,
As gold that guilds grass-field’s debt.
Nature’s fog
breath lingers still,
Over river-morning’s chill.
Gay-smile
lights gleam real bright,
In shadow-sky’s black-caped night.
Mother
earth’s quiet is calm,
Since angel-whispers her balm.
Creation
sings with glad-cheer,
As harm’nies three which few hear.
Two-natured
artist sort-loves,
With risen-flesh satin-gloves.
12-17th March, 2015.
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