by Conrad Martin
Then let them sing of the gods of the hero age—
the strong gods, wielding calamity.
Tall gods, knee-deep in cunning,
waist-high in wisdom, glowing with force,
flowing golden and gruesome with dreadful design
from the head of the shrine of the golden age.
Wide sweeps of glory, wild flights
of awful, imperial desire and rage—
the great gods, singing purple and wine,
the brilliant, the beautiful, forever young,
forever high-strung gods of furious eye and fearsome tongue.
Give them their place—their time.
Let the great ones have their space—their night.
Let them be right.
Let them fall forever the fevered height
of their sweet-sung follies of might;
may the mysteries of muscle be stripped and seen,
and the secrets of power come clean.
For a calm will fall—
the gods be tamed
to a human smile,
and their furies drowned in its gleam.
For this is the age of Man.
This is a day for a daughter of Eve
and a day for a human child.
The time is right for an earth at home
and a family reconciled.
So let them sing of love.
Let their peace run wild.
Photo by Kenneth Godoy