An Unfinished History

AN UNFINISHED HISTORY
and A Rebuke of Former Musings

Light gathers on the crust of dawn,
Releasing drip by drop
A trickled arc of palest sun,
That vests our heaven’s top.

The dawn of peace may take an age,
But comes with waxing pace,
For in the blackest, cruelest page,
The man of yore found grace.

Ah, and here I sense an urge,
A primal, whelming call,
To draw these lines that I might purge,
The fog from verse for all:

To counter songs of bleakest sight
That from these fingers flew,
I write assured that human plight
Will stain the hands of few.

For champions of mental man
Will cleanse – are cleansing now –
Through open hearts and gentle hands:
Acts in reach of every brow.

Join that partial throng of beast
Who walk (in partial line)
Towards partial light above the East.