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Etude for Peace | Poem


The Nightingale never tires of its own song,
Is never too weary to tell the forest its own tale,
Of heartfelt sorrows and joys;
The singing made is the song heard,
It’s the Sound all around,
When dreams are hatching in the nest;
Or when wings raise vision higher,
To see what otherwise would doom the Spirit,
Or stop a Nightingale’s song in flight.


     In boulders of silence...
     My spirit would be crushed;
     By boulders invisible...
     I would die long before my final breath;
     In the immensities,
     I would fly voiceless...
     Through shadowy mists of grief,
     And so I sing! To drive the shadows from my wings,
     To light the rainbow fire in my heart,
     To praise the day that God has sung,
     In Nightingale’s poet’s chest!

I have heard the jostling voices,
That yearn for peace and love,
I have followed mine to the treetops,
Then to the skies;
I have gathered my spirit around me,
And leaped into the air;
It is the need for all wings to stretch,
Horizon to Horizon,
To gather in the clouds and mist,
And make a rainbow or sky majestic;

     It is the hope of great wide skies,
     That leads my spirit on...
     ...It is the hope of all that is in my song,
     To leave this world, a springing branch and gone,
     Or a song in your throat,
     When ‘er you hear the nightingale’s song;
     It is the very song of myself,
     The song that God did give to me,
     To give to you in spirit gift.

When life is over,
What is left?
Summer Breeze and Tolstoi say,
"Art and children should be left,
They are the best to leave,
And never mind the rest."

     Some are made to tell the story,
     Of a human heart on its long journey,
     Into joy through sorrow,
     To tell others what is in my soul,
     No tattered wings on me!
     No feathers that cannot tell a story:
           Sky! Rainbows! Mist! Wind!
           Ice! Mountains! Rain! Snow!
           All of these are part of me: Lightning! Hail! Dew!

It is the life of me to praise these mountains,
Soaring crags that set me free,
Summits to rise from,
To circle the Spirit,
To send my own voice on to God.

     I do love life,
     As immensely as the sun loves day!
     I am the feather torn and sent,
     And so returns to earthly bliss;
     I am the spirit summoned,
     This is how I answer:
     With wings and song,
            I know not else but love.

            I know not else but love.

- Michael Warren Eliseuson