Spiralling grass, sole changing smell of dew...
As if all things together, old and new,
Expressed by palpitation of the mist,
Are gone or re-transformed, which is the same.
For roaming rain it’s easy to insist
Upon obedience when things are so tame.
Half-faltering on their broken edge,
Half-willing to accept this hinted pledge
Of thistle-down - rivalling flakes of air,
Thin trees, as if they’re twisted by the guilt
Of being stiffened, moving nowhere,
Are waving their branches, cracked and split.
This partly sensed, transparent scent of milk
Dissolved in lulling air turned to silk
By dense and pendent anguish of fulfilment
And stagnancy. Elsewhere, on the marble roofs
Of shrines, each milky spot is like a seal, meant
To be erased, that still remains and proves.
If things could be as they for sure mean,
They would be less surprising to be seen,
Completely gone beyond anticipations
To follow their wish. This daily jail,
Entailed repeat - make them get out of patience,
Compose and bloom within the framework frail.
Winged firework of forms, thus meant to be
Somewhere else where no one can see,
Roves here. Every palm of autumn leaves
So tenderly enrolls a part of morning,
With winds and rains, and afterwards conceives
So deep inside, where ripens naught but longing.
Fermentive prolongation of the day,
Where knot and rupture, purple sough and clay
Prescribe their inner routs one to another
Internally, and only from inside
Affect their transposition, being rather
Disjunctive like a low lunar tide.
And shivering, with eyelids downcast,
Yet half-protected from the icy blast
By dirty and dishevelled raven hair,
Your soul, as if escaping from pursuit,
Climbs desperately up the falling stair,
Still grasping corners of a cloven lute.