sailors’ ode

we go by dark stairways
to the vaults of your soil

and with glyphs
mark the walls of caves –

we intone your scripts,
hold them close in our hearts –

for you speak texts of merit, of the arcane
in voices of an austere harmonic –

visiting sometimes as blighted religious
shuffling darkly in fields

sometimes as fire wheels
spinning hot sour truths

sometimes as seers of rigour
intoning dour mottos

sometimes as silent mysteries
ripened with the epynean

turning your heads towards us,
taking us in –

and us?
no more the beleaguered