Minstrel

Deliver me, O Lord, deliver me!
Take me from this sterile sand,
these shallow prints sirocco blown.
Yes, others strain this gritty mediocrity
through tired tongues. Must I be so?
Only hope forlorn to stride a printless land?
Dead sand, dead song
not once to sift or sing my own?
An echo of an echo of an echo,
how long, O Lord, how long?

So hear me, Lord! Someday, only let me
breathe some small unborrowed beauty.
Lash my tongue then if you dare!
For this I swear,
that I, though but a cracked and empty sigh,
shall grope toward that far horizon.
And when at last in sand I fall, soul shrived
of all but passion, mute, then I
will know that I have lived my life,
strange Lord, not just survived it.