Menu Ireland Calls

Blood Brother

He of the Ways who traveled light,
Quixote, cap-a-pie in schemes,
That spoofer of his peers who rode
With us into our candied dreams;

He of the Ways, our look-out squire,
The anxious one who whistled from
The woods of wivern, gnome and faun,
To warn us, boulder-teared and numb

With fear; the moonlit one whom sun
Could not unskill, but our dare did;
Who died beneath the wheels of fate
As Clotho trampled him to rid
Him of excess (as true gods will)--
He waits, respectable, on stairs
And pleads connection with our hearts,
We who have not yet paid our fares.

(c) 11-23-96 Charles Sielert