Lead; take my hand and write this poem with me
on the glossy marble tablets walls,
engrave our names in emerald Gothic arcades
where the silent tomb-stones hide
beneath Earthly moss taste
curled braided twists of bodies,
whose swirl yearnings still scream
in the glare of their bronze skeletal ribs
and wrecked groins of thirst.
Ride brave on the heart of the red night spear
and let each of us bypass
the four crossroads deception mazes
finding the flow of the right path
which straight line verses
fuse at the end of the road into an angel pen,
the middle core of all crusty times dust mudding,
where the encircled still well water hides
the drowned lost island’s chalice
and its sunk harmony code of all nature music.
Let’s hear the far dancing flutes
hidden in the underground icy words shivers
reflected in bristled chills dispersed
around the well’s silver empty circle;
and let’s initiate melting over the gloom page
by reading the ace of wands cloud root
while touching the cradle of new time
that sprouts healing from the leafy hazel-rod
to bring back the lost elixir of a subtle diamond,
which iridescent abundance is the vessel
of the crown key to the portal of a secret love poem.
Ivan Mestrovic, The Well of Life….
Detail, The Well of Life
Mirogoj Cemetery, Arcades, click on the picture.
Ace of Wands