The Nephilim

They were the giants, only five feet tall,
who walked upon this ground
and sang of war and coastal drums,
who drained our tears, and gave us spring
upon cold pages, marched us through crisp summer
to prismatic light.

Do you not think there is some madness
in the hours that enter,
winking on and offand snuffing out the heroes
daring to be born?
What do we make of them?
...the Nephilim?

I think I shall be there
when the years turn inside out
and the ages fly off unrecovered,
crumbs of history soon brushed away.
Will there be ghosts to cry at me?
...the Nephilim?


Why should it matter?
What might that bumbling clone presume to write
within the frame of some new thousand years,
that I cannot?
Or, might I not be he who wrote it all before
upon a parchment, or a wall within the cave?

Thus written, is at best
a bit of slurry for a drooling sigh,
off, and on...and off.
Ah...you see, no matter of its merit;
art is for the moment of the thunder or the sigh--
for the thousands and for one,
and with the thankful coda
that we are not gods.
~