With song into clouds the rain mizzling upon gardens.
You seem like more than I can define: lots of mystery, cogent illusions, so
many sent to the forest. Like Indian mystics, born gurus, to find parts make
pieces fit; small creatures in the galaxy, many make a voice, with armor
surrounding certain cadence. To build on antiquity—to recreate the best of what
we see—if to find something new.
Most entwining skies, like autumn winds, leaves
soaring into lakes; more sentimentality—over purer moments, sore sensuality;
rhythmic paradoxes, if to feel good, it must become hurting—so simple a
thought, so complex an art, most imaginable.
Sincere emotion is too much to ignore; one feigns it,
it’s under-compelling, another unveils, and time sits still.
