Magna Dea
Tuur Verheyde
The day the maelstrom Mistress reaches out , A long arm brushes through your hair . A shiver says it ’ s time ; You walk away , while Some honour saints that day The dead a er , death before , But by the creaking door of an unseen Servant to the Whirlwind Widow , That great dancer , you come upon Her candid limelight And start to sway .
Soon you strut in sequence with The symphony of spheres , Of beasts , Of senses unwilling Slowly swirling towards Her high seat bathed In lunar light .
Looking upon your fragile Self , She sees a struggle And a beauty broken By leaden skies and seething soars . Where the Father might have judged Unworthy , where the Despot might Have seen betrayal , where the Howling Or the Houses might have salivated Over unclaimed turf ,