where the writers are
A poet Satan and his forbidden island
sunset-north-pole.jpg

It will shiver soon,
Their own holy dawn
and the golden moon
will shy and yawn.

Blinking her last
hazel lights on a vast
silky ocean.

Soon, 
The flaming sun
will beam his discipline,
And I am awake I am alone.

It will shiver soon
their own holy dawn,
And the sea will tender her waves,
For them to depart,
And gods of winds
will rise to rub their eyes,
Eager to lead them away.

Nightingales, avid to pray,
Across this magical bay 
and guiding stars assiduous,
Glazing their shining armor.

When I am listless,
Atop my dormant mountain,
I am awake always alone.

Reflecting, 
Over this cold flint
and sharp stone.

Waiting to espy them again,
Joyous Poets,
They will be sailing
to New Babylon.

That disguised heaven,
Amidst her emerald sea,
I am told.
The immortal island,
I am forbidden to go see.

The land of enchanting potions,
They attain bliss.
That mysterious land
of eternal milk and sacred honey.
Towering castles,
Beneath which flow,
Rivers of godly wines.

They will be sailing
to New Babylon,
Where they will be taught
the speech of birds
by Solomon’s children.
Where they will be schooled
to tame his winds.

When I am listless,
Atop my dormant mountain,
I am awake always alone.

How arduous
can this be?
Will it ever break
this nasty old spell?

The curse which  
kept me yearning
for a million year,
Knowing not what I make or do here.

Except every blazing month of June,
I find me waiting,
Over this silent mountain,
By the sea.

Tending seaside birds,
Waiting and my hurtful sorrows,
And soon
I’ll watch them wild sparrows.

Some, their thighs are pale,
Some their streaks yellow,
And some,
Just like me!

They bear dark spots
around their hearts.