The Blakean eye has scanned the sky, seen birds like cold stones rent
and in the marred decay of theirs, the death of innocence.
The Blakean eye regards the babes as clean of earthly sin,
yet watches on as, year on year, their joy grows deathly thin.
The Blakean eye has seen the Drakes, white and pure as air,
as their complexions dim to grey, life emptied, grey and bare.
This Blakean eye has sure surmised the deep heart's darkened core
in whose shadows it has seen the light come pulsing raw.
This eye has seen nature's gleam, has caught its violent light,
and in this dark malay of life has glanced the human fight.
This dappled eye knows not itself, its colours none, unknown;
in place of inward sight it sits atop a supernatural throne.
Mystic vision and clear perception, the eye informs the heart:
it leads it blindly by its strings to territories dark.
In destitution, unfair abjection, it lives not by its means,surviving not on sustenance: on divination, magic, it feeds.