A Promise of Gold

I shall place the diadem
Upon your Proclosian head
And the wreath of the Inner Light
Around your crown;
Twelve Tribal trumpets
Like rows of flaxen stalks
Sprouting forth
From the Arabian millet;
The motet of the Quadregesima Sunday
And the bellow of the Cherubim;
Bringing order to the great nations--
Thrusting others into the jaws
Of Symplegades.

© 2004 Brian Christopher Poczos

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