Sounding of the Dawn Bugle

Amidst the wildest mountain range,

Where human sleep just plays and plays,

There are woven in archaic strings, from watery enchanted springs,

Tales of ivory and ebony, the tide of unconditioned infinity,

Where, within the echoing of sunrise bulbs, are sung

The stories of the furthest sighted star,

And mixing elements of now and very far,

They retrace our deepest streams to where our ribboned dreams may run,

Narrating ancient pathways to the origin of our sun.

Sneaking through the moonlit paths,

Where willow trees just whisper and laugh

Of narratives retold and told,

Through winding pathways of older and old;

Our vision seeps beyond the clockwork of our sleep,

To splendorous and honest nature’s work,

That binds in spells the golden threaded bark,

And corrugates ferocious elements,

As rattlesnakes of mottled skin, do flesh the elephant’s awakened stare,

And tiger claws envision in the dragon’s share

A stagger in the unintended equal eyes,

That have unlearnt conditioned ties,

And sweep into such marvelled scenes,

Where sun and moonlight balance genes;

Their scattered fragments of mosaic code,

Into the painting of embroidered gold.

The sounding of the dawn bugle,

Does sooth the balance of our cosmic studio,

And herald out the great-awakened song,

Of how a nameless space did breathe upon a throng of intermittent fibres;

And thaw the myth of animal survival.

To weave the silk in threads of ink

Where alabaster silence does drink the milk of everything,

And elements do fuse together in the harmony of balanced weather,

Out of the boiling fire and receded rain,

Of eastern winds and desert jewels,

And envisions how the earth will raise again

In connected, showered diamond fuels.