Dragon Tears

I have named the stars jewels,
Silver fruit hanging from a silver tree,
Lily-flowers on jet-black pools,
The holes torn by light of beauty.
But, perhaps, I have never reality

Named, yet, in any of my poems.
Perhaps the stars are dragon tears,
Suspended as they drip from their homes,
The corner of eyes older than years,
Older than time and than human fears.

Perhaps the dragons form the night sky,
Great coiled black bodies clad in ebon,
Their wings spread as around they fly,
Wheeling in circles until night be gone,
Only dispersing when rises the dawn.

And perhaps the moon is the place,
The only place free of dragon scale.
They hunt that soft silvery grace,
And each cloud is a scraping tail,
Reaching dark fingers for the pale.

And perhaps their tears are stars,
Shimmering white lights so far away,
Marking the wide dark bodies like scars
Of light shed, as if for a moment day
Peered through the dark dragons at play.

Trembling, the tears hang above,
Dragonsblood purity, crystalline honey,
The draconic tale of sorrow and love
For the world they never see when's it sunny.
Perhaps the fairies use stars for money,

And every night the dragons cry new ones,
Weeping beauty for love of beauty.
That means that stars are not eternal suns,
And each star that passes lingers in memory.
Then the night is transient, and mortal, if starry.

What an idea! That the star, like the sunset,
Is immortal only in the memory of the gaze
That takes in the silver or the scarlet,
That traces the tear or the blaze,
And then lives a span of memory's days.

The dragons weep their tears in the sky,
And never notice how sweet they fall.
As they wheel in pursuit of the moon on high,
And weep for the beauty, their tears all
Nourish and comfort and cradle and call.

Somewhere is the place where they come,
The fairies who collect the stars for tools.
What a place that must be! Mute, dumb
With the wonder of these heavenly jewels,
The stars that lie shining in silvery pools.

There the trees hang heavy with wonder,
Drooping their heads 'neath the blooms
That fill the air with a soft teary thunder,
That fill the air with a million perfumes,
As many as have shone stars in the glooms.

There the fairies come, delicate, winged,
Picking the stars up with reverent hands.
All the stars that to earth have tinged
Are borne away to rich fairylands.
Each the splendor of a queen commands.

And above, the dragons are dancing,
Their tears shedding to fall on the earth,
Never at the beauty they create glancing,
Convinced as they are that beauty's birth
Happens far from the fairies' mirth,

Their happy tears at the sight of the stars.
How many things, if this tale be true,
Do we never notice, being so far
From what they mean and what really do
That we never know if they fell or flew?

If the stars that others call immortal
Can be born and tumble to earth every night,
What other things pass a hidden portal?
What other beauties lie hid in light?
What other wonders dwell hid from our sight?

How many beauties every day go
From the ones that birthed them oblivious
Dancing and shining out of the shadow?
How many wonders find divine justice
In making fairies in some silver place joyous?