Melancholy has a thousand colors.
Dawn after fever, the cars running thick
and fast: my mind is tracing paths of luck
and unluck, as we pass through desperate pillars.
Some of us will make it. Slowly i learn
to address them, the golden-born keepers.
To walk unscathed through forests of usurpers,
to treasure Sothic Astatine.
The first of March, and march is what we'll do
so many bullets, so many blank billets-doux
on. What could i call the one sure memory
i return to, while the patterns reconfigure
forever? They would counsel us, maugre
the crystal proof: beware of augury.
