Queen of Heaven

Oh Cricket stridulating to the Moon,
are you hoping your lover will come soon,
or are you singing to the night-time queen,
who watches you with such a frigid sheen?

What imagined terrors we humans find
among the creatures of our clever mind,
pleroma's infinitude is too small
for a learned treatise on them all.

With what eyes could we see such majestic forms
or with what ears hear their clamorous storms,
and with what tongue could we make our replies
to their rowdy discord from the skies?

No human tongue could wean the Milky Way
or taste the honeyed mead of night and day,
and no earthly nostrils could smell the musk
of that great goddess of the rosy dusk.

With what lips could we kiss the star strewn hair
of  chained up lovers like Andromeda,
or with what arms could we hope to embrace
the gravid charms of some rejected grace?

What straining sinews could withstand the pain
or heart bear the lance of royal disdain,
when mortal being tries to match the fire
of the Queen of Heaven's dark desire?

Praise for such splendour would be otiose
as the cricket's moon songs are grandiose
attempts to stem the heavenly tides of love
that pluck its tiny heartstrings from above.

But casting down our eyes to sticks and stones
reminds us of the cage of flesh and bones
that is the basis of our earthbound life
and undistinguished state of pain and strife.

Small wonder then the thing within the skull
looks to the skies, where the heavenly pull
sends poets chirping madly to the Moon,
hoping their song will be an endless tune.