Eons ago in many a vanished day,
There once stood a Hut by The Grey Hill
Twixt trees by no wind stirred didst sway.
Her floor of silvery shine like a sun-kissed rill—

Of all bird's feathers was her roof,
Her door of burnished gold hewn,
Of chalcedony her walls. Beneath her roof
A vase of all hues of a mulberry moon.

And In that Hut dwelt an aged aged man
Whose strange and novelty curly beard
Kissed the ground, and as white as a swan.
No string of hair beheld upon his head.

His fiery eyes were as steady as forever,
His voice akin to a roaring thunder's tapestry,
He who was the last of dwarves of Nineva,
That now wherever they dwell is but a mystery.

One perfectly glorious noontide, so they say;
He took to hidden paths of an enchanted moor,
And as a wind surreptitiously vanished away
To be beheld by mortals nevermore—nevermore.

So vanished that novelty Hut of The Grey Hill,
And now, peregrinators who peregrinate in that land
Hear mellifluous music like whispers of a rill,
And at eventide behold a vase in a colorful band

With no strings attached—but pendulous in air
Like as a motionless cloud hanging upon the sky
Whilst gazing about mountains in robes so fair,
So it hangs in opalescent hues unto any naked eye.

Alas! Though extramundane the vase—none canst remove,
For when thou dare gravitate, sweet music no more,
But discordant melodies like as a hateful wave
Beating against a galleon, & thou art spirited evermore.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Tacoma, Evergreen State, 03/02/21.