The Golden Cloud

The horde of bees became a deafening roar
Like the winds of a hurricane
Droning on forever,
No respite from the howling winds
Or the dreadful humming,
Only cowering in the relative obscurity
Of the false night
As clouds formed above and all around us,
Lightning bolts stinging the ground
With horrendous roars of thunder,

Then calmness and light,
Greenish gold light from the center
Of the cloud,
The eye of the hurricane,
The droning of the bees in the Key of C,
Becoming for us a dirge
As we picked up the dead,
Carried them off to the charnal ground
Throwing them on the piles of other dead,
Listening to their hollow plaintiffs and cries,
The cry of the bees in the hollow bones,
The echo of the high wind through the skulls
Of old masters and young students,
A flash of light in the ancient eyes
Signals the coming of the Golden Cloud,
The arrival of the Spirit and the appearance
Of the sacred Chalice,
The Crucible of God,
Shall we drink from it together,
You and I?