Pardon, My Children

For when the falcon leaves my arm to drown,
A current stronger than his wings is flown;
The breath of Fate's caress will sound abrim
The AEolean Lyre.

Pardon, my children, if I yet remain
Somewhere in earshot for your story's end.
My pen can only dig in clumps; each clump
By sodding clump shall build a bursting mound
Awrithe: plague rats and blood beetles, black bats
All framed, clothed and coloured within the dirt.

The Tyger and the Chimney Sweep; do you
Bless them with hard thoughts and supple voices -
Or do they drift on the falconer's wind,
Abrim the AEolean Lyre?