My Tattered Spirit Is Too Weak Poem by Nero CaroZiv

My tattered, old spirit is too weak; quenching; declining; mortality does hover and creep
It Weighs heavily on me like compulsory, mandatory, eternal, endless sleep,
I never contemplate or imagined an imagined pinnacle and feeling steep
Of Godlike hardship; looking around it tells me all have an end; I so must die
Like a sick eagle; with broken wing looking at the universe sky.
With questions and wonders; yet a gentle luxury to weep,
And mourn I have; and the cloudy winds and fearful thoughts to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning greyed eye.
Of childhood, evoking such dim-conceived glories of the brain
And bring round my heart an indescribable yearning; gnawing feud;
So do these wonders over nature; I am not in it; a most dizzy pain,
That mingles ancient events of grandeur with the rude
Thought of my wasting of old time; with a mass main,
A sun so dear, a meadow so green; over my head a shadow of world spell and heavenly magnitude.
Bare feet, run out again from childhood modest house
Into summer morning dewed dunes sands and scare the field mouse

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