User talk:W.L. Mantis

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On a Sculpted Muse

O silent voice of heaven arched with grace,
Sound resonant, reflected, radiant made,
In quiet waters still enough to see,
What stroke of ivory so deftly drawn,
As if a curtain, onto mortal earth,
What savory reminiscence of the Dawn
Which sweetens somber skies at their rebirth;
O goddess who allows herself to be
Thus reproduced by mortals blind and deaf—
We cannot look at sunlight, yet without
Its ardor, we can gaze at nothing else.

Thus you have come to shed your light on us,
Your perfect fingers broken at the tips,
All edges gnarled with time—you’ve let yourself
Be subject to mortality, be chained
In stony prisons soon left to the dust,
Where all that man has built in graveyards rests,
Ambitions, Inspirations, perished, all.
Perhaps we’ve seen you, hiding in the trees,
Or chuckling in the crannies of the streams,
Somewhere in those ungoverned, wrathful seas,
Or in the vapor-visions of our dreams;

O light invisible, come further out,
Though we have long forgotten where to seek;
Who hides a candle underneath a pot,
Or sculpts a cover for a joyful fire?
We’ve stumbled, with out fingers, round this world
In hope of finding Braille where mountains roll
(That we may read the names of what we feel),
But named as valleys, mountains still would be,
Or, christened mountains, canyons still run free,
So tell us not your name or whence you come
But heal with beauty us, the deaf and dumb.

--W.L. Mantis (talk) 22:32, 28 December 2007 (UTC)