Your carefree, winged thralls of seven,
Those tireless slaves of day and night,
Still forge the cosmos up in heaven
From empty ore in sacred light.

But now they falter, drained and hollow,
And rest upon my shoulders bare,
While even my own demon, sallow,
Falls silent in his pious prayer.

And silence, like a cloak, is folding
Around all beings sunk in shade—
As primal gold, in me upholding,
Now burns and melts, yet does not fade.

October 2020