|
by Dr. Robert James Berry
As the moon stirs among shattered clouds
Crosslegged in the courtyard
Shawled in silence
Storytellers still as owls
Recite in clear clairvoyant tongues.
The sorrow of their verses
Casts giant silhouettes inside our heads,
Their voices
Grieving instruments
That clothe the dark
In a necklace of memories.
Listening to infinity
In the aching simplicities
Of these old masters
I know these bass-throated men
Are sacred. As prophets summoning gods.
| 
