Symphony No. 3: Lord of the Children
First Movement: His Coming
Our teacher fled on the last day of school.
As ragged as she was, and carrying
a sack like theirs, we would've stoned her too.
Once she was gone, He led us to the yard,
calling us out on those pipes of His name,
this prince our age from God-didn't-know-where,
crowned in a robe of green and orange stars.
He skipped north of town to the Labyrinth
and called to us, "Hide in My rocks till dusk.
I won't allow your parents to miss you."
We stumbled across the bridge drawn for us,
into what thought to resemble his hands.
He left us room to breathe, but nothing else,
while He danced back to castles and houses,
making a holiday of our ransom.
He preached our safety upon the doorsteps
of whoever was looking after us,
leaving enough to hurry them downtown
to buy a peerage at the general store.
Teacher's stumble suggested that she must
be off to Köln to ransom the Empire.
At sunset, He bent His elbows into
their first names and put out all but five stars
to fish us out; he sang fresh stones and built
a highway too eager to carry us.
Second Movement: The City
We wearied from a ten-universe march
before we crested that hill of dawn
at whose scattered feet the City lay --- our "Home,"
where Trees of Life grew on each street corner,
guitars and banjos picked themselves off vines,
mandolins flew and sang in the woods,
and we praised Him when he put us to work
hauling boulders from His favorite quarry.
When we cradled them, their shatter sang into
songs so old they forgot to be written,
of almost-gods He loved losing, of One
tattooed by demons -- silver for his hand,
and he walked on suburbs of a forest.
"What Light is light without Darkness? Besides,
why should he get to miss out on our fun?"
Third Movement: Revelation
Behind His back, He called Himself clever.
We'd get homesick; he'd roll his eyes and glare.
"That's just because you don't know where you are."
He unraveled his quilt the day --- or had
it been a year? Two years? Five? We wouldn't know.
Time didn't pass. It detoured if it chanced
within any of its extents of us.
He wanted to be paid with vacations
and sports, which even a Lord sometimes needs.
He bellowed for angels and demigods,
played Himself for demons and the fallen,
then grinned at the Devil: "The ones you win,
I'll trade a pound of gold for every year
they've been here."
"Add my hand and you've a deal."
His eyes met ours, orders fleeing from them:
"Applaud your belief in My spirit!"
Fourth Movement: Resurrection
His smile cracked powdered fire and blocked our way.
"I have My pay, it's time to replace yours."
"Gangplank aweigh -- it's time to deny Me!"
Our obedience shaken out of us,
we slit His purses, bobbing Him midflight,
till He and all the universe fell dead.
We didn't mourn for him as much at last
for our getting old, at least enough to wake
and crawl home, piece by cramped piece, where we grew,
got married, with two or three déjà vus,
enough to set His dance back on the throne
and earn the salary of our belief
in a return to the unheaven He
keeps selling, the one He calls Neverland.
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