"...superior technique, a subtle sense of harmonic development...Tom Splitt is a performer well worth hearing." - The Milwaukee Journal

The Poet and the Cry of Life

I

Irrational
Illogical
Emotional
Delirious

Senseless crying
Mystifying
Terrifying
Feminine.

Denied
Demeaned
Denounced
Disdained

Repressed
Renounced
Reviled
Enslaved

Broken
Scorned
Rejected
Spurned

Beaten
Gouged
Scarred
Burned.

Her waters red with blood
Her valleys scorched by lust
Her fields laid waste
Her forests ash
Her body cold
Her face invisible

A misbegotten soul
Left for nothing, left for dead
Behind a bolted leaden door.
Silent.
Extinguished.
Entombed.

Long forgotten, long interred
Six hundred years, six million more.

II

A cry rises from the grave
From desolate valleys
Cold grey caves, deep-tombed hollows
And the blackened Womb of Earth

Ancient desert voices howl
Beneath the shivering stars
Buried broken dreams cry out
Beneath the burning sun
Dessicated bones
Beneath a sea of sanguine sand

The Cry of Life, the Scream of Birth
That pierce his heart and shake the Earth

He opens the bolted leaden door
She falls into his arms
He holds her

Their warm sweet-sorrow tears combine
To irrigate the field
Revive the forest and the valley
Wash the blood, the lust, the ash

To soothe the burns
Anoint the scars
To bless the Womb
And heal the horror

To melt our frozen hearts
So we might hear
The soft, triumphant flutter
Of the butterfly