MICHAEL MIKUS
Lost in America

O, sing to me those sadly oppressed and I'll hold you
      gently to my breast in whispered measure of the inner ear
to rest where dreams lay buried there, nestled in the chambered
      hum of pounding drums powered by pulsing echoes
in resident mockery of cathedral sound, old yet quite profound
      are forgotten in the prison chains you struggle to endure.

Sleep now, for tomorrow the sacred chant of nocturnal beats
      will wake you to the distant memory of my dark counsel
to sustain your journey to the end of night, where sunlight
      radiant in the dawn's fair light waits, like the warm breast
of Mother Earth with sweet milk succulent, slow-captured
      in the netted shapes and symbols of pillow-brained infancy.

When the ancient satyr laughs through the trees at night
      like a haunting lunatic be still, hush your unquiet mind
because the drum will lead you to a new-mansioned dream beyond
      perimeters that shine and gleam at universal end-
unknown but seen, for I am with you; I'll never leave you;
      I will always love you in the deepest part of soul.

And when you wake at the far western point to look out
      at unseen Asia remember then, that strength born
wet from underground springs will bring forth new life
      to break apart, beyond horizons closing dark
to face the fear of freedom's heart that will lift the mind
      to start again, and stretch beyond reach unimagined.