My Father’s Eyes
( They cried )
through These Windows, came The Sounds, of Glory,
of Empires, and of Legacies, and A Soldier’s Story,
of Men, and of Machines, and of Sacred Things,
of Honor, of Courage, of the Voyages of Kings . . .
through These Pages, now tattered, and torn,
came Heralds or Prophets, Sages were born,
from Dawn, to Dusk, came Wonders, anew,
over Fields, and Forests, Our Destinies flew . . .
through These Gates, came His Tales of Old,
of Castles, and Camelot, and Cities, of Gold,
of Fame, and of Fortune, and Destiny’s Hand,
of Sons and Swords, and Monuments, of Sand . . .
through These Echoes, so His Stories would tell,
of Legions, on Battlefields, Men marching to Hell,
of Gods, and of Galaxies, and of Creation, unknown,
of The Tides, and The Times, when Angels have flown . . .
and through These Moments, All gathered Here, and Now,
come The Whispers of Horses, and His Dreams, SomeHow,
and No Matter of His Journey, not of The Where, nor The From,
because, finally, Here, at Hand, Yes, His Kingdom, has Come . . .
from Book I, The Ring ( First Light ) The Eleventh DoveTale – The Shelter of Kindness