from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons




Bound by chains of lowland vines,

Nourished only by the rain.

The red meat of my heart

Now chips and shards of stone

That even ravens cannot find.


I am most subtle now,

Unable to touch or to be touched,

Only smoky tendrils nimbly wrapped

Upon the memories of men;

A formless thing perceived by them

Only in their sleeping dreams.


Kept alive by hunger.

Eager to be embraced with flesh

And upon the bones of war – like men,

Answer with firm metal once again

The faithful ravens call.


Out of the west

Out of the west

Where is the storm that brings me breath

To let these lips of moss reveal

That charm which causes me to heal –


For when those birds recall my name,

Then will I be whole again.


from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons

All rights reserved.


ISBN-13: 978-1466272996

ISBN-10: 1466272996

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