by Sean Corrigan by Sean Corrigan
Though darkling realm oppresses all, Its overlord a titan cold, With ruthless stars and ice-shards crowned, His hoaréd orb our night-girt globe, Yet, at his triumph’s very blare, His boreal trumpets’ wind-blasts cease. Astounded he, who sought to bind Our puny race with frost-wrought chains, As ragged tapestries of weave, That chill, not sheltered, keep his Hall, Are kindled in a new struck spark, A youngling flame of Life and Hope.
For eastward, eastward gleams the Child As solstice’ turn brings in His birth And, though we languish in despond, Will Infant grown reconquer Earth, Full-manned in panoply of gold, His blazing sword our Foe’s confound. His fiery scutcheon day star set, Our vital warmth its heavenly round.
From fields ashimmer, boughs weighed down, Will thence come harvest to sustain, But, zenith o’er, His reign shall pass, His kingdom ebb, His power wane. But rue not majesty which fades, Nor fear the shadows’ onward creep. Eternal is the measure tripped, Unfathomed is our wellspring’s deep. Unending is the round we sing: “Our King of Light lies nobly dead– Long live our deathless King!”
Sean Corrigan [send him mail] writes from Switzerland.