Written tonight while listening to this gorgeous piece by Eric Whitacre, entitled “October”:
On a bright horse galloping
slowly over a sun-set field
a prince, a princess
a bride, a king, a man and girl;
a story grand and told again
again and again -
I am the old man in the window
of the unnoticed home
beside the great pasture.
I watch as each sun sets slowly,
ceaseless, the sound of
trumpets, brassily rejoicing today,
tomorrow, the next
time goes nowhere but around.
She rides away with him against the clouds,
I am alone.
What then I know I wouldn’t give to see
a saga sweet and glorious as theirs,
a piece of orange-purple cloudburst, free
from walls of stone and sullen, skyless air.