Up high I climbed, weary, yet not dismayed;
Tired, yet had strength within me that was steel
Against the harsh wind; sad, yet so that tears
Seemed sweet drops of joy too intense to feel.
Then at the golden Gate I knocked, with the power of my fears,
Knowing how full of woe, yet full of wonder was I.
Through all that night they helped me sleep, to dream
An ancient dream, perhaps the one before we die
Of things unknown that appeared like ghosts through swirling Time,
No harmony, nor music soft spun from magic sight,
Save a single haunting, plaintive, note that to me seemed
A scent of jasmine, carried on a desert wind, at night.
And refreshed I was, with the light of the rising sun,
And by this peaceful place, this haven from hatred’s constant voice,
Wishing the same for all who watch, alone, the crying stars,
Who live in war, unable to rejoice.
I enjoyed this, Christopher! I can hear the music that resides in all excellent poetry
Thank you very much. Yes, it’s true, poetry is music in words, and has its own beats. I heard some distant harmonies in this one, so am glad to know someone else heard it too and maybe better than I did. Thanks for the support.
PS, just read your great poem-really remarkable. I invite you to read some of my other poems on my blog-hope you will like some of them-your comments are welcome. Chris