To the Fallen Angel

Forgive me, my bright Angel, clear of eye,
That I did not share your sorrowful road...
A mighty Spirit, measurelessly lone,
Into the chasm of the dark dared stride.

Forgive me, you who suffer and are dread,
Who plunge into the dungeons of Being's core!
In our snug world—both starry and sun-fed—
Who can begin to grasp the charge you bore?

You race, and drawing in your wake behind you,
Apostates, traitors, Judases of old,
Chosen by Fate, impassive and unkind to you,
To wield a justice that is stern and cold.

The more of them—the heavier the weight,
That drags you downward to the World's abyss,
Where no Light penetrates, and even in a spring day's date,
It's dank and dark in that unholy place.

But—the more dense the counter-current's flow,
The thicker the foul deep's obscurity,
The more arduous becomes the movement, slow,
For one immortal, born in Fire, to bear.

And there, at the nadir of the descent,
You'll stir the uttermost layers of the night,
Burning in insight's fiery, hot lament
Your sufferings and sorrows in that light.

And then your Spirit will unfurl its might,
Will surge aloft, both ringing and aflame,
And in each newfound sphere, will pour the light
Of torrents of its liberated Fire's claim.

And swift and bright your ascent will be,
Eternity will flash in that fire's spark,
And there will bloom, on some sunlit planet, free,
The happy ones who rose up from the dark.

And so today, I do not shut my eyes,
Nor scowl like some stern cliff against the sea,
When suddenly my spirit feels the burn and cries
From the touch of a Luciferian wing on me.

02.11.2000