August 13, 1997

Whose songs shall we sing, if not his?
His voice silent in the soil that gave it
wings— sleeping sound, bereft of flight.

Still hearts long for the sweet one,
deprived of light, for the horned god,
known by clear song to tremble, fly

By love to soothe the troubled world.
What strain rises deep from the earth
into fallen faces furrowed by his smile?