sw00372jt-b1.e7

Justan Tamarind: Book I       e7                             



From his bed, Prince Hugh unties his cape
And planes it into the air, watching it drape
Itself over the raised arms of a boy.
Laughing, he asks, "Son, what is the shape
Of your intent?  Why would you hide your joy
And burning behind a foreign mass?
Shine on us with force.  Do not be coy.
That cloth is not a cloud which will not pass.
And we are burned already.  Why the grass

Has curled from you for more than half an hour.
Look at us.  Let every dainty flower
Wilt.  Look at us.  We need, we need more sun."
Nearby, some voices ripple, like a shower
When it is winded into waves which run
In easy lashes on a roof; and Hugh
Moves back to sit among the princes, one
Who by his smiles lets each good mood come through.
"Oro, Justan's angel, what shall I do?"

"Sweet angel of the fiery prince, since Love
Creates the hands that then may make the glove
And fleshes His own Son to lift a cross,
Direct yourself to Him, within, above.
As His Son says: In Him there is no loss,
And his bright Spirit will receive your own,
As He does sinners--as gold; not as dross.
Such commerce which by that, Kai, will be flown
Between your spheres, you never could have known."

"Yet, Oro, my commanded mortal speaks
As one with paradox between his cheeks,
Crying against the sun, while wishing more.
Even I am baffled by what he seeks.
Their Mezdras thinks him wise: a likely sore.
Or could it be the heat has withered here
A man with roots too immature to store
The food he really needs to still appear
At his known best, after a dry year?"

"For him, it seems, the year has not been dry,
But wet.  I think their games with reason, Kai,
Still spin your spirit off its meted line.
Your intuition flutters far too high.
Their thoughts are more like milk than scotch or wine.
They are nothing that should intoxicate
An angel.  Look at Justan's mighty spine:
How it curves forward, and he is great
Among men.  Should we be bent so by fate?"





Brian A. J. Salchert