By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/6/08

A few stars blinking with awed astonishment
Under the rolling citadels of imposing clouds,
Lights seeping up from the eastern horizons
That are not the lights of dawn, but of a city,
Quenching the monstrosity of a typical
Saturday night with the typical sobriety
Of a Sunday not-quite dawn —
Certainly a birth is being announced,
A name propitiated, but it is a hidden name,
A name, which has perhaps been devised
To remain forever hidden, so that a few
Sober, alert inhabitants of that somnambulant
City will stay awake night after night
To ponder such a mystery. It has been raining now
For days, and even if the insomniacs
Would report tomorrow on the briefly appearing stars
And upon the mystery of the hidden name
And upon the announcement of the birth,
No one would believe them. Because even
On Sunday morning, the denizens of this city,
Perhaps of every city since time began,
Are seekers after a loud certitude,
And not an ambiguous silence.
The citadels are moving and the stars
Disappear beneath their massive porticoes,
Like tiny vassals devoured by their Lord.
And yet it is here, it is now, when fatigue
Tugs at the brain with its greatest heaviness
That the mind of the insomniac,
Although it is the tiniest light of them all,
Blinks its signal reply to the vast unknown.
And the name, not its sound, but its silent power,
Exerts its mighty influence, like a love
That beckons into deeper darkness.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.