Swansong

 

Full thirty-five in number they made an eerie sight,

Wild swans like ghosts all wing on wing,

Pale horses from the night,

And through the mist a silent song came crying down the years,

An end to all that was to be,

A sacrament of tears.

 

Rejoice then for submission now will bring an end to pain,

And love will never touch a hand,

Nor kiss the lips again,

The cold that soon caresses life in all consuming fire,

While gods cry out to emptiness,

The torch is at the pyre.

 

But still the swans fly onward as souls toward the sun,

Where in the light perpetual,

All earthly toil is done,

Where passions unrequited are sanctified and blessed,

And children that were never born,

Lead parents to their rest.

 

Gods grace, a heart, the crashing sea, all motion never still,

A turning world an endless age,

The majesty of will,

To live with strength and fortitude with tragedy and pride,

And know that as mankind lives on,

No man has ever died.

 

In Memory Of My Godfather Joe Facchini