Far off across eccentric peaks
In color blind-blown massive streaks,
And ‘pon the sickened sun-drenched plains
Where winds of war sing sad refrains,
The hexen hurtsome heavens hang.
While o’er the wailing windswept walls
In truth the beggar eye soon falls,
The stricken birds of long-lost prey,
The rumbling rust-hewn feet of clay,
Flap-walk on heated hurried stones.
And none ‘cept they may best proclaim
The simping slow-sung sacred name
Of fantasy’s forgotten blame.

And way beyond the winding waste,
In deathly doubt and hail-hacked haste,
The trundling arc-curved minions go
Through steam-stressed seams and glowering glow,
Past windows shut and doors oft closed,
The misty mannequins there posed.
With silver skins and clench-cleft eyes
They wait for crowing crowded cries,
Then send their sour-soft signal sighs.
And none but they may best proclaim
The simping slow-sung sacred name
Of fantasy’s forgotten blame.

In center land where once were trees,
The cankered kings of lordly ease
Lie low and listen.
While all around the prancing priests
Dispatch their dream-dark dancing beasts
And gorge themselves on fancy feasts,
And there the little folk do hide
In proven primal practiced pride.
They utter groans both true and tried,
Press ailing aching bones aside,
Then cast their runes then far and wide.
And none ‘cept they may best proclaim
The simping slow-sung sacred name
Of fantasy’s forgotten blame.