A young saint could hear
the winds bursting loose
they carried to his ears
the shriek of strangled nations.
Killers in each hand a pistol.
He knows the king is soon
to be conquered.
he walks the streets
with a vision of far gleaming
brass plates in palaces
that have yet to be built.
He knows there is a kind
of miracle taking station
in the open meadows with soldiers
asleep under timberworks with all
manners of fire still burning.
He sees the hero of worlds
on his charger
on the spur
in an instant
with the bridles in his hands
taking flight against the darkness
with regiments marching,
banners spread, clasping
their bayonets to their chests
they know well the simple
science of death.
Under the cloud of night
he knows the hero has already
cut her loose and like soft music,
she is running towards him and
a carriage deserted in the street.
She stumbles upon the young saint
clutching his book with trembling
fingers. He wishes to reach out,
and caress her- a longing long
abandoned. He drops the book
in the street, and covers his
eyes wishing to be
as blind as the wind.
The book in the street now
has the cold deposition of a witness.
She picks it up, and holds the book
out to him as an offering.
The young saint weeping knows
that there is no retreat, and with a sigh
he turns to face the cannon shot.
She stands there pale face looking on-
a frozen mute- in her eyes he sees a
thousand fireworks blazing. He reaches
out to her and takes the book caressing
her fingers- his hands the communion cup
and she the sacred wafer. He knows
then that the mountain is always victorious,
and he will be found dead in the morning
looking as if in prayer.