Comments about Robert Ling
The Milky Way
How countlessy they rise, in space
Over our tumorial hunger to know
Which from the galaxies turn its shape
When they melt in white their yellow?
Like our strong love about the forest
Our beautiful chapel that rises on
Too white on books, and hard in east,
our green blood, invisible at dawn.
And yet with neither love nor hate
Cover our sky phantasy in white
lifeless, like Minerva without eyes,
like our ego, with no gift to know the sight.