A Journal for Western Man-- Issue VIII
G. Stolyarov II
The sun is bleak.
The sky is faint.
Sordid seagulls shriek
With sickening taint.
Tattered grass quivers
From frigid breeze.
Gray dawn brings shivers,
Untouched unease.
But at sight’s end
One lucid spark
Does fast ascend,
With fiery mark
Ignites the skies.
Its vibrant streak
The calm defies.
Its turbines sleek,
Its wings full-spread,
Through clouds it soars
High overhead.
It carves men doors
From flowing streams.
Below this steed
Olympus gleams
While it gains speed.
It gives no care
To trembling dreads.
With radiant glare
It tears to shreds
Grim mystic void,
Its forward flight
Of doubt devoid,
Man’s craft by right,
By Man’s mind made,
Serving His will,
Never to fade,
Never to still.
Lights everywhere spring,
Stagnation dispel.
The motor does sing
An ardent farewell.
The engine’s hum
The stars pursues.
Ambition’s sum
Brightness renews.