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In the Company Of Saints
by Ingar Kleiss
Voices heard from the gallery of saints,
Call to my ruined soul,
They whisper the secret sayings
And make the ancient bell to toll.
Ringing, ringing through the fog,
The cobwebbed annuls of my mind,
Bringing, bringing silken ribbons,
To wrap, to bind the words I find.
And sort the tragedies of foreign wars,
The long ago, the dusty past,
Statues staring from the mezzanine,
Recalling the first, emboldening the last.
Saying go and search the archives,
Fold back the battered cover,
Read what saints and sages wrote,
What dust and time now smother.
And so I read and heard the ancient saints,
Understanding the scribbled prose,
I knew the battlefields of which it spoke,
The o'er turned stone that crushed the rose.
And then and there I wept in privacy,
Stone saints staring down,
When I bent my ear to hear their groaning,
I cast aside my golden crown.
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