Before The Shrine
Don Hynes
When the tree of understanding
with its deep roots of faith
was felled by the godless,
the ancient island sank
beneath waves of ignorance,
the pain of displacement
and loss of sanctuary
buried under years of hunger,
centuries of wandering.
To recover, even to restore
called for prophets of strength,
poets of valor, for the holy place
to be held sacred once more.
Repenting from wrong doing,
priests and priestesses
lined the corridors of purgatory,
cheerful despite the gloom
and depravity against our beloved.
Awakening in these hours,
the light of the living is upon us
and where we stand we are not alone.
God speed us on this perilous journey
for the fallen are lost, and the lost
will not be found. Oh tender mercy,
be upon us, the vagrant people,
that once more we find the fountain
to raise the dead who only sleep
and together before the shrine
of soul and spirit
to innocence restored.
Shapes of the Ancient
Preparing for the day
in morning hours,
avoid the fountain of discontent
with rippling waves that disturb the mind.
Recall the night’s darkness,
Jupiter aloft like a lamp,
the half moon’s muffled light
shining on the quiet bay.
In this time of the profane made sacred
guard your treasure with silence,
thoughts of kindness protected
for the days to come.
The journey is yet far,
our endeavor infant in form.
Shapes of the ancient
on sandstone walls
remind us of pride
and the fault lines of hubris.
With the knowledge of trees
and strength of the tide
we will continue,
our faith a bright flag
under cloud filled skies.
