I start talking once you will say four summers
Are your dressage, the way you address me with solitude.
We are married when mothers are you and your soul
That blindly makes fifty years of your whole hat.
Ahead the fathers burgeon and brew with their tops on,
Faithful commanding is their accomplishment,
Faith is a strong result of their good doing.
Wells of water cannot amount to that moisture
Of the heart, a witty weather closes up the house,
No more is heard, no more seen.
I look healthy and energetic
To be the coiling cold, a realm of disaster,
Those cataclysms are furnaces from
The old prehistory,
Lava erupts in this summer of the sky.
Go down the tunnel of cleverness,
Enter the ancient rooms and hallways,
And the eerie passages are fed alone.
Monday, November 19, 2012