Non Serviam

Non Serviam.

 

You left the altar standing empty, full of dust,

so you could string fair women like pearls with fine verse,

so you could pluck the pleasures of life.

Yet you sing no poems and life gives no pleasure.

 

The work of His hands, you turned for ambition,

wordly treasures by the work of your hands gained.

Yet you lifted a cup of lowly ashes

saying: “Behold, my pain”

 

Like a shepherd, you sought your sheep,

but nay, found only your lonely self

You left, young lover, to find love,

but nay, only sadness.

 

Through fields afar and adrift,

you wandered when the angelus tolled.

Your heels buried by earthen sod,

you dared not.

 

The moors became your home.

The trumpeting lark’s strophe, your Gospel.

Dancing maid upon the meade,

your courage lost.

 

Your vows of merrymaking

lay dying, scattered amongst mere swine,

whose scraps you eat as bread,

in mournful mirth.

 

After love’s distant reaches, you embarked,

yet farthest removed from love.

You leave heaven’s share for heaven,

a requiem for pious souls.

 

Come eventide, angels plea in earnest,

that prodigal lips make bold to praise.

And shall your resounding hymn be one of: “Peccavi”

–          or “Non Serviam”?

 

 

* Non Serviam, is Latin for: “I will not serve”. Peccavi, is Latin for “I have sinned”.

Ode to Latin

What is a tongue deceased?

like voice on angels’ wings,

carrying a trumpet,

lost in the background of modern noise.

 

Requiring excavation;

scholars mutter,

holy men repeat.

Why should a dead thing be so beautiful?

Lying there like road-kill on paper.

Graffiti atop ruins.

Born from ancient Rome

By sad pointed U’s, rolled R’s.

 

Sleep with those men, sibyls, centurion.

Dance with that literate dust.

Echo signifers, senators and founding fathers.

 

Shall I see those minted letters?

Shall I cry out the elegant vowels

of scientists:

Esto perpetua!