The Wastelands

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The Wastelands

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #191

Whose the hand sweeping out the storms,
Who has barred the welkin to enter,
By whose lullaby do sleep the clouds,
Who has soothed the wave’s rampant fever?

Where gone the tomes the mind possessed,
Only are found here torn up fragments?
Where the lyre by which were composed
Many a soul-lyric of subtle melodies?

How reigns in heart this eerie silence,
Like a hamlet by the living abandoned,
Unvisited by familiar or strange passions,
A cold sombre space it has turned.

Where gone the old name bearer,
Claimant of the form and its dreams,
Who now masquerades instead here,
A shadow personage sans purpose?

Such are the wastelands I now inhabit,
For here too I must seed Thy spirit.