Chimes blown by the desert winds,
Voices in the crowd speaking something true – few take note.
Great words of wisdom to the proud, bruised ears set to itching,
Youthful eyes seeing – yet no hint of cheeks set glistening.
Know ye the number of the Troubadours’ trump before one soul is e’er redeemed?
How blows unholy winds: puffing hair, chimes too fair, tongues that wag, joy in the wayward?
Heralded times go unheeded.
Bugled sounds from the heights of neglected ramparts.
To trust those whose approval is found in others – but not from He who is On-High?
Seek not the Maker in song or truth?
Where have our Pillars gone?
We listen to Great-Grandfathers’ toll, his ticking, no soul.
By Steven R. Harrel