Not what weaves the goat's hair, sheep or
orange rugs singing on their looms, but magnificent
strings of night embroidered into darkness
mixed with light surrounds us.
To make, to creature-ing alive, alive; O they
will skip and dance enchanted tunes! Be so
hurriedly announced, derived from madness
comes the mad, delirious troupe.
What fire-crazed tribe, what mouth of cave
whose entrance glimmers proud yet punctual
like moon? Whose hearts reflect gold toned
shades of evening like a shining mirror?
May I remark, a scribe, a bolting deer
how sweetly I admire from the shadows
what I hear- the sound of herb, white
feathered birds rising in swarm.
