Cry of Masada

I find no comfort in these desert storms,

No solace in seditions of far sands

Where the hazy shades of visions forms

Cast in memories by a spirit’s hands.

A triumphant fever looms in the sun,

A mist of glamour and reverenced zeal

Where cries as stifled as air itself shun

Remoter words that tears cannot heal.

What lulling sacrifice can death induce?

How can blades pierce the torture of disgrace?

Where are the golden tongues of peace or truce

To which blind men dare not turn their sore face?

They all sought for death below the same sky

That hampers the freedom of seclusion

I subside in the twilight’s crimson dye

Fathoming the wells of man’s illusion.

Life is a whirlwind, a wheeling welter,

Cyclical return to recollection.

A wasteland of cold in which we swelter

For fears to arise in resurrection.

The fortress rises a glorious tombstone

For all witnesses to entrust their sight

To a glory that lasts like a wind blown

In between the realms of courage and fright.