Four loves sent me South, from up North came two songs
At a garden I began, first sunny then dark
To a garden I dare return, my options: die or try it.
I bend over to scratch these words in the sand:
Oh how this heart longs
The coming ring of a hymn of a lark
This ancient chant, grave yet light, release it now on iTunes. I'll buy it.
So listen as the trees read off their palms the songs of man, voiced by the wind:
From dust I came, son of the sullen earth
With every tear upon my naked face, only hiding mirth
Knocking at celestial gates, "Open heaven's hearth! "
The one who knocks, to him it will be opened:
Then I will find (incomprehensible bliss!) that N.J. has descended to New York
Babylon struck and burned by misunderstood religious winged stork
Babel itself is slow of tongue, for the morning returns home drunk as spirit uncorks
He who has ears to hear let him hear.
Welcome him in after a long overdue night spent in blind riot
In 2012, the world I knew will end; the moon will again smile, red-lipped, near the
If I said, I will speak only thus, I would have betrayed the generations!
For my lips are superficial, soiled in dirt, not dug down deep nor touched by coal tongs
There does exist a Lover that makes her lose her luster, yet al final makes her more madly glorious, but this is a treasure box, carried on poles, often unwittingly by dumb oxen and once knowingly by "that dumb ox"; yet I myself cannot pry it.
A tree of life exists with healing even in its bark.
Thus, blessed are the poor, that is, the romantic. For the only eternal broom jumpers are lame.