Ever and over, at moments and then,
I ask thee with intent, choric I ‘fess.
Placid, passive, yet of most sudden,
abrogate that which I fell for then lest,
devoid of earthly delight or wanting,
I were to find ease leaving it be,
or dub then ‘morseful I past yearning,
bohemian romance, thou as well me.
When valleys shalt drown in ashes of graves,
then nothing shalt rain but virgin most blood,
Lions shalt adhere to our lambs most knave
while angels shalt mourn their wings of mud.
In placid lakes, On perturbed ripples,
carry the unliving their silenced leaves.
How oft they feared a touch of death
though oftener touched their watery grace.
No more a fragrance to this dirt,
nor left a memory in its breath,
far and further as the roaming
takes me from my tree of birth.
Ashen turns the hue each walking
step thus taken in my search,
until I fear from with that grey
shall turn the pallor of my day.
Of that which I hope with yearn
know I not the least its fate,
but do I fear too it shall turn,
I shall too fear the pale one great.