O Vigilant Lamp
Day-dreaming, Flickering Light of Vigilance Poesy
A lamp is lit In the corner of the room, Itโs glow reflects In a lone window. Nearby a book lay open With pages yet written. From the outside? I cannot say. Perhaps a dim flicker Seen through the haze Of the pane. But the living space Remains empty, And the attic gathers dust. Especially on the boxes. Chests of future memories, Treasures gathered up, Frozen, like statues, in time. There is no light Up those stairs, The night has penetrated The walls of the whole house. In the cellar only Are there signs of life. Underground rivers Often flood up to the waist Pressing uncomfortably Against the gut. And even when the waters reside The place is left chill and damp. The remaining pools Give no reflection, Pinned down from all sides By the black earth and stone. But there is the faint sound Of wandering footsteps Searching in the deep Through labyrinthine passages. Searching, reaching Clawing in the dark For something, Or the other. A tired voice Mutters prayers or pleadings, Conjurations or curses, In strained whispers That cling to the bones Of the cellarage, Like cobwebs between the rib cage. His echo calls back to him gently, Softly causing the wisps To waver, ripple, Sometimes becoming unstuck At the soundโs touch. The echo seems to him More real than his own voice. His heart kicks Each time it is heard, As if that first spark That set it in motion. Sound and light. Sound as light. He presses on. And still in the house A lamp is lit In the corner of the room, Its glow reflects In a lone window. It stands and keeps vigil, Waiting in day-dream And hope. The blank pages Of the book Shimmer in the light. In anticipation.
