Advent VIII

by Obi Martin
From the Empire of the Yellow River, 937 B.C.

Old sky, how high you lie
up there, in your complacency
your faceless dome
your eyeless spread
your earless tomb.
how high you lie
and how bitterly
we see you there
lying in your terse complacency.
how bitterly we cry your name
and your language only guess.
your faceless dome
your eyeless spread
your earless tomb.
Old sky, how high you lie
come down from your complacency
come down Old sky, come down.
how bitterly we weep
Old sky, come down.
how bitterly we cry your name,
and language only guess
Old sky, come down.


Artwork by Grace Weaver

One thought on “Advent VIII”

  1. I don’t think I understand everything about this poem, but the longing for revelation is so painfully poignant, so beautiful.

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