Paul Ilechko was born in England but has lived most of his life in the USA. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. He has at various times been a visual artist (painting and photography) and a writer of both short fiction and poetry.
Paul has had poetry accepted by Ibis Head Review and the Peacock Journal, and short fiction by Grab-a-Nickel.
Old Photograph on Facebook
The curling edges of an antique monochrome,
chemical imbalance trending to sepia tint,
the acid reflex recoloring her eyes to brown.
Under the magnolia tree, a whimsical smile.
Cigarette smoldering as she tousles the head
of the bedraggled child in hand-me-down pants.
Electronic wizardry undreamt of in her time
allows me to digest and regurgitate the image,
sans stains or creases, pleading for admiration.
A Plain House
The hypotenuse slash of the fire escape
carves the pale frontage into isosceles segments.
Creamy stucco, rumpled as old newspaper,
a desultory troweling of archaic proportion.
The oblique diagonal of that serrated stairway,
mirrored and repeated by the angular branching
of an erect pin oak. Parallel lines, cleaving
their architectural pantomime across the sky.
Ornate metallurgy, whorled and curlicued
beside the homely windows, adds a piquancy
of Cajun flair to the Yankee drabness of the
boxy house, unnoticed by the marauding tourist gangs.
In the Gallery of my Mind
The giant stalk of red broccoli stands disconsolate
in the corner of the yard, overshadowing the deep
blue ranch house. Each floret is a trunk, branching
from the main stem at ground level. Acer Palmatum
to those who know, Japanese Maple to the rest of us.
I imagine it painted by Picasso. Executed in late
cubist style: the red of the leaves and the blue
of the house intermingle, each plane a refraction
of some small glittering facet as seen from a specific
angle. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
I imagine it painted by Matisse. Brilliantly lucid in bright
Fauve color, a shocking interaction of brilliant pigment,
a riotous disdain for traditional notions of what a
painting ought to consist of. In the foreground, there in
the lower right, Madame Matisse relaxes in her chair.
I imagine it painted by Paul Klee. A miniature in pure,
clear watercolor, almost pointillist in execution. Framed
by the white paper left untouched, a work of sublime
beauty. It shines like a distant star, imbued with greater
nuance than its minimal size might lead one to expect.
I imagine it painted by Motherwell. A massive canvas,
raw primer showing through between the blocky planes
of blue and red. Flat from a distance, but close inspection
shows a magisterial touch, a painterly elegance that
belies the scale, harking back to the masters of old.
The tree is nothing in particular. The house is but a house.
On the same street are many houses, many trees. Some
of them are more impressive, others are less so. But this
particular house, this particular tree: they will rise above
all others, persisting as they do in the gallery of my mind.
Going to a Patti Smith concert at age 60
You step up into the large space. That’s where the
stage is. It’s already filling up and the room smells
of beer, you see it sloshing over the rims of plastic
glasses and spilling onto the shoes of the oblivious
audience. You might feel an unanticipated thrill, something
electric yet familiar, tearing through the crust of time.
I remember this. It’s the thrill of being, of belonging.
Being with the people I call my own. The ones in
leather jackets and tight jeans, the ones who say “fuck”
without a second thought, the ones who paint on walls
or make cheap jewelry, who prefer to sleep during
the day and work at night. The young.
I remember Horses. I remember Radio Ethiopia. Not
just in recollection, but as new, as inspirational, as
an extended finger thrust into the face of the stale
and predictable. Our daughters can’t understand what
this meant to us then. They see her, understandably, as
just a cool old lady who makes interesting music.
Our children have their own cultural signifiers, their
own way of having a stake in a rebel generation. But
Patti speaks to them. So perhaps our generation did
do some things right. For me, she is a role model of
how to grow old gracefully, how to resist the pressure
to conform to someone else’s stereotype.
Standing here for three hours leaves me in physical
agony, but this is worth every last painful second.
The ambience is empire bordello.
Color schemed in orange and brown,
lighting dim and sconced, making an effort,
one presumes, to hide a certain decrepitude.
I sit at a solitary table, dinner for one.
Alone, I’m pressed up against the tiny stage.
Two guitarists, young and nervy,
resplendent in jeans and checkered shirts.
The musicians pick their nylon strings,
trading jazzy riffs beneath the full wall mural.
A breathtaking cornucopia of fruits and flowers:
pumpkin, poppy and eggplant catch the eye.
From the surrounding tables comes polite clapping.
These multi-generational families accept
the unfamiliar music as part of the price to pay
for a night of pasta and cheap wine.
There’s a new mural almost every visit
but the families, while different, are always the same.
Each table is aloof, self-absorbed, oblivious
to the richness of life that surrounds them.
I feel like I ought to take the guitarists home.
A private concert, absorbing their blues and Latin jazz.
We’d laugh and drink beer while they jam, and
follow up with whisky and deep conversation.
But it’s clearly much too hot in here.
The ceiling fans struggle valiantly, unable to keep up.
I sip my glass of iced water and wonder,
where do these curious ideas come from?
David Tuvell has written poems appearing, or forthcoming, in Coe Review, Corvus Review, Easy Street, I-70 Review, Minetta Review, Mud Season Review, New Orleans Review, The Penmen Review, Steel Toe Review, and other publications. His Bachelor of Arts in English comes from Kennesaw State University. Outside of poetry, David’s path has been quite various, and he has made his way through things like information science, information technology, and labor.
The Centurion at Kefar Nahum
O, for a baker with a kind beret!
A dashing prince, an Errol Flynn,
who would but shoot the moon!
A lounging god of thick éclairs,
We would paint the forest red
for him, dispel all unkind weather,
and when he gave out Christmas gifts,
we'd be his favorite sweater.
We'd love to feed his sweet tooth
with such sublime, mellow decay:
more Columbian brew and cigarettes
than Leuchter at his Auschwitz.
Mike Gallagher is an Irish writer and editor. His prose, poetry, haiku and songs have been published worldwide. His writing has been translated into Croatian, Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian and Chinese He won the Michael Hartnett Viva Voce competition in 2010 and 2016, was shortlisted for the Hennessy Award in 2011 and won the Desmond O'Grady International Poetry Contest in 2012. His collection Stick on Stone is published by Revival Press.
Birth of a Naturalist
Rambling out on Thade Cud’s road
one bright and early morning,
the strangest noise rolled down the hill,
it came without a warning.
Revving bikes beyond the bog,
or cats discordant purring?
'Twas hard to tell, to tell at all,
what really was occurring.
Fresh amateur naturalist
mused on this sound so soaring:
would a pride of lions proud
to our bogland go snoring?
So on he climbed up Thade Cud's hill,
his mad thoughts still provoking,
until he came upon the source
of that awful, awful croaking.
Crammed in a boghole, dim and dark,
amid the mud and slobber,
had gathered all the local frogs
dressed in their mottled clobber.
There in bubbled water seething,
skinny-dipping and embroiled,
cold amphibians were enraptured,
arms and legs now intercoiled.
This righteous man, three score and ten,
thought such lewd behaviour shocking,
all that brazen, wanton sex,
all this shameless interlocking.
Spotted anon by bouncer frog,
disgruntled at his gawping,
sent the raucous revellers
He moved in near to see more clear,
reined in his rampant corgi;
said bullfrog: No sir, come no closer,
this is a private orgy.
Barbara Suen is from Mishawaka, Indiana. She has had a journal by her side for at least 30 years. In times of stress, recording dreams/ nightmares, and joys in life went into the journals. The poems started there. She writes for the passion of it, and hopes that it touches someone out there. Makes someone smile, or even "save" someone. Published in Several Anthologies. Also, published in many issues of "Soul Fountain" magazine, and one international magazine, " The Storyteller" ! Recently Honored to have her work seen in "The North American" edition of " Our Poetry Archives" An e-zine seen Internationally. Her dream is to publish her own collection of poems some day!
Fill Me With Your Words
I ache with hunger
An unexplainable craving
for words of beauty
of pain and joy
and mine mixed in a pot
I read the poem
take it apart
save that which
pierces through my heart
until I bleed
that which reaches the core
until I cry
Then, I see,
yet you are nowhere near me
In fact you are on the other side
the light of understanding goes on
of what the poet was trying to bite off
I then get inside of them
to digest it
they "feed" me
as they are fed.
Our spirits then full
stare at each other
I am full
The "hunger" is however,
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine. He has published two chapbooks, "A Curmudgeon Is Born" (Yellow Chair Press) and "Digging for Fire" (Stay Weird and Keep Publishing Co.). He is a Best of the Net Nominee and was the judge of Into the Void's 2016 Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in both print and online journals in 12 countries and has also been translated into Albanian.
Coldly Burnt Away
The Autumnal onslaught
on the trees recede
counting backwards from green
soon enough the leaves
turn the shade of burning things
brightly arranged embers making
it looks as if the trees themselves were ablaze
as the eyes scan across the valley
the sight is similar to a smokeless wildfire.
I Found God
I found God huddled
half dead in a garbage can
in the alley of the city
on a rainy night. I tried to fix
It, nurture It back to health
but It seemed to not want any
of my help and instead preferred
to simply slump there in It’s
current state of carelessness.
What can you do when someone
won’t help themselves?
Even when it’s the being
supposed to be helping others?
(written for my uncle while he was in an induced coma and hooked up to a breathing machine with blood poisoning and a collapsed lung)
You’ve been thrown the stairs
to the deepest depths of this pantheistic place.
You are alone yet not alone.
We are all here for you but
there is only so much help we can offer.
The rest is up to you;
to climb back up those painful steps
that you were so impersonally tossed down
and make it back to us.
It will be a tedious process
but you know better than anyone
that you are more than capable of it.
I know you have already begun
that slow and pang-ridden crawl,
one step every three days. No matter what
you must continue this climb,
step after excruciating step.
And when you finally do reach the top
of those evil stairs and wake up,
don’t say a word.
Just breathe for a while.
When the Blaze Begins
There are occasions when
that ever-burning flicker
of a flame is suddenly swept up
by gale-force inspiration and grows
into giant whorls of blazing creativity
as the mind sheds its inner turbulence
and spills it out onto the canvass of the page.
During these moments that little flicker
suddenly spreads into a scorching
wildfire of thoughts, its flames lashing out
like fiery orange fangs biting upward at the sky.
The Sound of the Sun
“To the silence,
or what we believe
to be silence
which may actually be
the grinding lapping licking
sound of the sun
which all creatures have evolved
to block out
and hear what we perceive to be silence.”
A PhD in English Literature and LLB from LN Mithila University, Darbhanga, and CELTA from the University of Cambridge, United Kingdom, Vijay Kumar Roy is the author of Realm of Beauty and Truth: A Collection of Poems (2016), Premanjali (2009), a collection of poems in Hindi, and editor of The Melodies of Immortality (2012), an anthology of poetry, besides editor of and a dozen academic books.
He teaches English at Northern Border University, Arar, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. He has also taught at SRM University, NCR Campus, Ghaziabad, UP and two other universities. He is editor-in-chief of Ars Artium (http://www.arsartium.org/index.html), a widely indexed international research journal of humanities and social sciences published from New Delhi. He can be contacted at: email@example.com.
The Progeny of Fanatics
The progeny of fanatics
are busy everywhere
to influence you
and bring you under their clutches
to tame you
and make you a puppet.
They preach that
usurping others’ powers and lands
changing history and geography
converting others’ ancestral faith
and spreading hatred
to achieve their written goals
give them place in heaven.
The world has seen
so many ultraists
who changed the maps
and notions of nations
by their ill-gotten might.
Either fear of death
or love of intimacy
or self- made theories of temptation
helped them achieve their goals
and leave behind their true adherents
even after centuries
to plant the same plants
to re-ruin all
that took centuries in creating
by true adherents of the Lord.
my eyes are tired
to see the Unseeable
but His scriptures tell me the truth
as you show, so shall you reap
today or tomorrow.
It’s a cycle, coming and going:
generating, operating and destroying
to run the universe
and keep all these ongoing
going, going and going…
Jeff Newberry's most recent book is the novel A Stairway to the Sea (Pulpwood Press, 2016). His writing has appeared in a variety of online and print publications, most recently in Peacock Journal, Atticus Review, and Snake Nation Review. Find him online at www.jeffnewberry.com.
Letter to Justin after Orlando,
after Sandy Hook
I’ve never owned a real gun—never
wanted one. As a child, I
idolized soldiers & killing,
thrived on Vietnam War movies
& thought John Rambo a national treasure.
My friends bought Dollar Store
AK-47s & stalked the jungles
of our backyard imaginations.
We dodged invisible grenades
& killed “gooks” and “wops,”
the yellow men of our imaginations
because we wanted to show
each other our manliness.
I was a fat kid, Justin—my boy boobs
jiggled behind an ill-fit
K-Mart camouflage t-shirt.
My breath wheezed through lungs
made shallow by nights
of Little Debbie cakes & RC Cola.
I had to prove to them I could run,
had to show them nothing scared
me. My narratives were the bloodiest,
the violent tales of bouncing betties
taking a man’s legs out in a red haze.
I slaughtered scores of imagined enemies
to prove I loved America,
to make them love me even more.
I never served, Justin, to answer
a friend’s question, who interrogated
me in the days after Iraq,
when I wondered why we’d waded
into yet another quagmire.
My father did his four years
& ditched the Air Force after
the Cuban Missile Crisis. He told
me he lay in his bunk & waited
for the world to end. Tonight, I’m
listening to my son run through the house,
telling his cousin, “I’m gonna kill you”
because the boy had taken my son’s toy.
I laugh & know that it’s not serious.
He’s only got a water pistol.
His rights are safe. He can fight
for his freedom. He can walk into a night
club or high school tomorrow,
free as an ejected shell.
Ryan Warren lives with his family by the sea in Northern California. He is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, and his poetry has previously appeared in numerous journals including California Quarterly, Poetry Daily, Poetry Breakfast, Amaryllis, Wilderness House Literary Review, Firefly Magazine, Verse-Virtual, and the anthology, Carry The Light. More on his published works can be found at http://www.facebook.com/RyanWarrenPoetry.
of Orion's Belt
the western-most hitch
for his dark pants
is a double star, actually
A and B: bright blue giants
twin suns circling
every five days
each 3 billion years old
and yet still younger
than our own star
born as our own earth
broke apart its supercontinent
first formed its magnetic field
whose light took
916 years to arrive
left as Henry I
was crowned in England
the Crusades raged
Héloïse was born
Abélard's destiny was set
and a picture
of the twin blue suns of Mintaka
went forth across the universe
and was received
by my eyes
almost a thousand years later
and just as I was beginning
to think that important things
were happening around me today
In my previous life I was a leaf.
Or was I Cleopatra? I don't know,
I can't claim her memories.
I have no lingering animosity towards Romans,
no unexplained fear of asps.
But what I do know about is budding,
is spring, is green so brilliant it terrifies
the world that celebrates your greenness.
What I know about is unfolding, damp and limber,
learning how to open to what feeds you.
I have felt the thousand little things
that eat small holes in you
crawl across my darkening body.
How they labor to take pieces away,
leaving you less than you thought you needed.
I know about how the holes seal
darkened at the edges.
Little discs of nothing
punched through you.
How you still go on.
I can remember the warm, yellow days
when everything you collect flows,
as it should, to root and branch.
I know about the joy of buds, appearing,
brighter, tender leaves, unfurling around you.
I have known what it is to see
the brittle, brown leaves dropping before you.
To hear them released, and slowly fall away.
I have felt the drying at my edges,
the weakening at my stem.
Perhaps I was someone else, too.
A serf starving on the Russian steppe,
a Pygmy medicine woman, a potato bug.
Or simply star stuff, the sum total of carbon
the universe was willing to share on a given day.
But then a stiff, fall breeze rustles the ruddy foliage.
Crisp leaves break loose from their beds,
swirling about our heads for a moment,
and again I remember—and again I am with them,
falling back and away, down to the waiting earth.
The Moon Illusion
Lemonwhite and smudged
by ocean haze
I stumble upon
a huge softball moon
the twilit hillside.
Not the cold, bright
the high dark sky
but its bigger, easier
full as my moonshining
eyes as my twilit heart.
Which they say is a lie
an inflationary trick
played on my wanting mind
when the round moon
hangs just above
the lip of some horizon--
and which I can test
by holding up to it
an object of reference,
a dime from my pocket,
to see that, really,
the broad, desirous low moon
and the thin, austere high moon
are exactly the same size.
But why should I believe that?
Does my own size not change--
though never at all
compared to the dime
in your pocket?
Don't I grow
from thin to bursting
to equanimity to tears
within a single day,
without ever changing
the dimensions of my skin?
Leave your dime
in your pocket,
we have enough
objects of reference
and no need to test
the fullness of our hearts.
The chicken is slippery as I strip
meat from bone, slippery from the fat
woven like a thread through the plump carcass
carcass, corpse, body—it’s all context
the chicken arrived roasted, skin crispy and seasoned
herb-covered, smelling delicious, and my job
my job is to strip soft, white flesh from rubbery bone
flesh for soups, for salads, flesh for a week
of meals, and not to sneak too much
too much lures me in as I carefully separate tissue from sinew
fat from meat, muscle from cartilage and fascia
pull apart what bound this bird when it still breathed, not now
now’s not the time to feel nerve, to think of this bird
engineered to be drawn and quartered on kitchen counters
while wildness is wound deep-set in all of our bones
bones I dare not to toss my dog: poised, all coiled tension
untroubled by concern for the bird, his singular focus--
waiting, wolflike, to break open the bones of his desire
A Midwinter Hymn
From Orion’s winter field
we are received
into the clear and cold
the shortest, the darkest
the furthest tilted
on the holy axis
away from the heart
of the circling sun.
hosanna when the cows
the beer fermented.
Feast now and light
now the holy lights
drive out the fearsome dark
light the longest,
light the coldest
begin now the tilting
forward into the light
let the lights be lighted
and let light and love
and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too
and begin the holy holy return
of the sun, of the Christchild,
born this holy Saturnalia,
this festival of lights
begun this Brumalia, this Advent
this Amaterasu, this Choimus,
this Inti Raymi, this Koliada.
Holy, holy Thai Pongal,
holy is this Makara Sankranthi,
this Soyal, this Şeva Zistanê.
Holy is Shab-e Yaldā,
Dongzhi and Korochun,
holy Shalako and holy Goru. This,
this holy Chanukah, this Yule,
carried in by fickle Julenisse,
by merry ghosts, by Ded Moroz,
flown in by La Bafana,
walked in by the Samichlaus,
St. Lucy, St. Nicholas, St Basil
Kleesschen, Tió de Nadal.
born is the King of Israel
come let us adore him.
Adore Matisyahu, Judah Maccabee,
adore ancient Odin, give thanks to Dažbog,
Thank you to wise Father Christmas,
to gentle Santa Claus.
O holy night
when all is calm, bright
mount then the holly, the ivy
mount the greens of mistletoe
bring in the ancient pagan tree.
Light, light, light the ancient
and the scented log
light, light, bring forth the evergreens
and light the 9 holy candles
for 8 holy nights
and remember the reason
for the season of the ending,
the bonedeep and the most ancient,
the beginning, the slaughtering,
the fermenting, the feasting
and the light
the light that weakens
the ending darkness
that light that lights
the starting sun.
Mandie Hines writes in the Rocky Mountain region. She’s driven to create pieces of fiction that capture moments of human vulnerability. Her work has appeared in Down in the Dirt, The Flash Fiction Press, and50-Word Stories. Visit www.mandiehines.com for more.
The Things I Regret Forgetting
The sparkle in your eyes.
See, when I try to remember…
there’s only a blank canvas.
I try harder
but then there’s only splashes of faded colors.
It’s like I’m legally blind
and I can’t see one single line.
And I just want to remember
what the color green looked like
when it was lit up by the heat of a thousand blazing suns when you saw me.
And the gravity of them
was so strong
that it pulled the corners of your lips up to kiss your eyes.
How I wish I could kiss your eyes.
How I wish I could see your smile.
The sound of your voice.
I don’t dream of you often.
It’s as though you don’t want to haunt my dreams
like you haunt my life,
but I just want to hear the sound of your voice.
I want to remember the cadence of your speech
tiptoeing across my skin
reminding me that you believe in all of my dreams,
and your voice assuring me that I can believe in them too.
I regret forgetting how to think of you
How to think of you
and not cry.
How to think of you
and not feel my heart being ripped out of my chest
and mourning over the gaping hole that’s left.
I wish I remembered the curves of your face.
I regret forgetting
that just because you didn’t die at the scene
didn’t mean that you would survive
the car wreck.
That just because I wasn’t in the vehicle
didn’t mean that I would survive
the car wreck.
I regret forgetting
that I didn’t know how much time we had left.
I’m sorry that I didn’t write.
I’m sorry that I didn’t call.
I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you at the hospital.
I’m sorry that when I arrived,
you never woke up.
I can’t move on.
I can’t move on.
I can’t move on…
because I know you won’t be with me.
I regret forgetting
that I can’t forget
how much it hurts that you’re gone.
Like petals plucked from daises
Aspirations float to the floor.
I continue in the darkness,
Searching for the outreached hand that led me before…
Closing my eyes, my world begins to spin
I have to remind myself once more:
It’s not this space I’m lost in,
It’s the confusion in my head.
All I really wish to do, is curl up back in bed.
It takes all the strength I have
To open my eyes.
It takes all the hope inside
To proceed toward the door.
Stumbling on the thoughts I have
Tripping on the petals
Reaching with one gasp of breath
I swing open the door.
Waiting for a whisper of air
I look up to see the same room I was in before.
Walking from one room to the next
They all look the same.
Sighing, I slump to the floor,
I’m tired of this game.
In one moment of clarity
A realization sets in:
It was never the rooms that were the same
It was the frustration that came from within.
Silence Runs Dry
Voices from the past echo through the room.
Silence runs dry.
My heart's been struck by the moon.
Stars come tumbling down.
The forest shadows the sound.
If happiness lies behind me, what lies before me.
The rain falls toward the sky.
I stare from the ledge and see my life.
I turn away and cover my eyes.
I shouldn't be alone but somehow I've made it my home.
I step back and fall.
Scream softly as you can.
My last resolution has been spent on somebody else.
I awake to see nothing and sleep to find hope.
At depth I am shallow for caring too much.
Within I am empty filled with unrealized dreams.
At length I have already failed myself.
In short I have not lived.
I close my eyes and pray.
The angels turn to dust and sparkle over the sea.
My mind fades to some distant memory.
The sun begins to rise and pour over my soul.
I am not who I think I am, and I am not who you see.
I just wish for once I could see where I was going.
All I ever wanted was to see where I was falling.
And bottled up inside of me...
Santosh Kumar Pokhrel is a senior civil engineer and a noted contemporary poet from Nepal. He spent almost seven years in in Moscow during his study. He is member of different literary sites and has frequent publications. Mr Pokhrel is a published poet and has hundreds of poems and two published books, the latest being SACRAMENTO POEMS. Sacramento Poems has also come out in an e-book form and can be found at www.odishaestore.com/sacramento. He has been published in US based Moonlight Dreamers in Yellow Haze and going to be published soon in Dandelion in Vase of Roses, both edited by Michael Lee Johnson and co-edited by Ken Allan Dronsfield.
Poems by Santosh Kumar Pokhrel can be seen in several facebook literary groups. He has several poems published in Tuck magazine. The poet enjoys three world languages English, Russian and French including Hindi and mother tongue Nepali. Most of his poems are lyrical and rhyming. His poems range from simple romantic to metaphysical full of oriental sentiments.
September 20, 2015 (Nepal constitution day)
Let the love and sentiment tsar
That instill in them so far
In hearts of the rustic folks
In maidens with braid-locks,
Those all the daylong toil
Grieve with smile they foil
And cease to bed tranquil
With light the bellies fill.
No malice nor grudges and claims
No shows no glamour no blames.
Observe they lives midway
From ages they live this way.
Their pure humor and love
Those nag not you and shove
By heart they are so kind
They own no nasty mind.
They feed your cities still
And bid you no much bill
Have cried when you did cry
See, eyes are not yet dry.
In countries far off, suburbs,
Feels no bounds and curbs
Kindness do they impart
So wide are generous hearts!
The stream runs down in rage
She did an unclaimed war wage
Against suffering or she did sway
In her stern path away
From the time to us unknown
Neither known to us her tone
And the moan she may have en route
Coming down us to suit
Our needs; and thirst ours quench
And our farms willfully drench.
How generous of you stream!
You are so supreme!
Supreme a lady kind
Troubles who did never mind
Till now when we been old
This has been many a times told
By those who here passed away
And have fallen to ancestral bay
In peace may they remain!
Eternal bliss they may gain!
And realize their abode soon
Grace them eternal boon!
Oh stream, you grace theirs screams
And lift those all souls in dream
Of you; sovereign and serene!