Sanctuary

True was the band of troubadours transpiring to transcend,
Blue was the colour of the blended flower that was berated with incense,
Sound was the singular virtue, so soulfully and scantily read,
Why were the tones of the instruments of wind so wistful and woefully wed?

If this was the way of the Ischian breeze, with Its Italic Italian Idiom,
Then surely we can traverse their display, despite their deceitful dominion.
Found then I’m certain foundations can flourish, and
Grace discovered when gratuitous;
I alone can beat the ignorant, the blasphemers, and hopefully, the spurious.

Don’t cry for him; he seeks no pity, just empathetic ears,
So signify his significance and swallow sympathetic tears
March in rhythm to the beat of his drum and nod in his own syncopation,
For he hears only in partial tones; exceptional tones of delirium

For time it spans a thousand ticks and time titrates time-space,
The only greater wonder is the need for mankind’s haste,
To find the answer so soon is doom, we need to be more patient,
To understand that time stands still is less understood than latent


Iain Cockhill 2007 (EyeCeyE)