She asks the moon when will the storm come–
then sees the sea’s tongue
wind round rocks, licking foam into a lather,
and hears a moan,
the cry of time, the language of misty death
and dreams reborn, whispering
and after the shadows,
a thousand tiny diamonds shine
a spray of light against midnight blue.
She watches the flicker of lustrous wings,
listens for their song.
Today’s message from the Oracle. For those keeping track, the poem came first, but I feel like the Oracle wanted another Redon painting, and I found this one. She probably had it in mind.