It Is No Madness To Say You

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.

Love, Why Have You Sought The Horde Of Spearsmen, Why The Tent Achilles Pitched Beside The River-ford?

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.