GALLA PLACIDIA IN BLU

It is old the cold ground, the mound
Stranger to the Viking soul
Who sails on a boat
And ends consumed in fire,
The pyre of scented sandal
Turns into ashes blood and bone
In heathen rites of mourn.

I chose for myself this dome
Of brick and stone where the sky
Hangs above in duplication;
And I shall have nuns
Saying prayers every hour
To keep my memory from annihilation.

Here sheltered in blue
Shooting stars shining above
Florescence of a million
Fragmented glasses united
In divine design, one knows
In all transparency, one can
Lay in final respite.

TABLE OF CONTENTS    NEXT PAGE