The blades of war, the swords, the drums,
The blood that alway sfinally comes.
Are not the song, the words, the measure,
Neither the joy nor yet the treasure.
They are the darking beast of ground
That gives the shadow to the sound
The mindless hum and mortal beat
Of cello, snare and tympani.
To all these, there is nothing wrong,
But none of them is quite the song.
Monsters of time, beggars of rest
Do not perceive the hidden breast,
And never hear the upper voice
That sings above their ill-fit noise.
Should you measure by their time
The steps and leaps you tell your mind
Only these paths will drive you wrong
While wishing you had heard the song.
Measures are numbered, two and two
But only the song is always true.


Winifred Dithyramb III
Whimsy on Overdrive
Slatterns and Gulls, pubs.
Bongville, W. Va., 1998