It is old the cold ground, the mound
        Stranger to the Viking soul
        Who sails on a boat
        And ends consumed in fire,
        The pyre of scented sandal
        Turns into ashes blood and bone
        In heathen rites of mourn.

        I chose for myself this dome
        Of brick and stone where the sky
        Hangs above in duplication;
        And I shall have nuns
        Saying prayers every hour
        To keep my memory from annihilation.

        Here sheltered in blue
        Shooting stars shining above
        Florescence of a million
        Fragmented glasses united
        In divine design, one knows
        In all transparency, one can
        Lay in final respite.

Copyright © Elide Valarini Oliver, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.