Who Blocked the Royal Sight Lines?

The language of mystery
And the unknown, the language
That isn’t really language,

So much as meaning’s wishing
Well. So surrender wishing.
Maybe you made up the tale.

Maybe you would like credit—
Winter, shadow, mystery--
For language you inherit.

Sometimes it still startles you,
The beauty of this planet,
But it’s not since you’re quitting.

It seems perfectly able
Of being this wonderful,
With light radiating cliffs,

With quiet and these small sounds
It doesn’t need hungry ghosts
To manufacture. So what

Brings you here? The mystery
Of language and the unknown.
Language lacking any kind

Of capacity to frame
The unknown as if it were
What brought us here today.