by Galina Krasskova

The moon weeps at our madness.

He comes with the jangling of beads,

The clicking of charms,

The tying of knots,

The whisper of secrets.

He is silence,

And the crashing roar of its waters.

He is midnight intoxication,

Cold heat locked in alabaster,

Ever enticing to the touch.

He is temptation and desire,

Aching hunger

And the promise of its sating.

He is the tug at the heart

Awash in loneliness.

He is the weight in the belly

consumed by grief.

He consoles.

He has sorrowed.

He survives.

It is His wyrd:

To see. To know. To sorrow. To remember;

And sometimes in remembering,

To find sweetness.

 

I think His gentleness has been learned.

There is steel behind the carnival mask He wears.

No One could do what He must do otherwise.

He is one of the Mighty Ones, our Elder,

Their Elder too, though the Gods I think forget

In Their maneuverings.

His only madness is that He does not surrender

To the despair of His position.