Thursday, December 18, 2008
Run on, sweet lad, into harmonious time,
Open the door, so often the scents are yours;
Melt the butter in the pan and watch us grow
As you run on into a time of cooking.
Run for your life and death as fellows of the city
Express joy as you enter and return to your own town.
Forming entrances will keep you holy,
As holiness does not shut goodness, merely
An evil nature has been expelled from the country.
A sweet cooking island supplies enough food,
Lying and bathing is a time of marvel.