By Santiago del Dardano Turann
Each moment holds its revelation:
They mostly fade away
And wither in the mute contraction
Of time's unending play
On cliff sides of extinction.
Man leaves the half-unmolded clay
To melt beneath a thousand
Thin frazzled thoughts that through the day,
A waving magician's hand,
Are so much wind-torn hay.
What is the key to that green land
That gives life to each moment?
Is it lost in the starry band
From which it can't be rent
To fall as dew upon the sand
A silver secret sent?