i’ll go – i’m dry;

there’s no time for

conquering my own moon

life and nature are so beautiful

as they all take from my centre

broken,

that it will become the rich soil for

spring at least not in vain;

 

old time broods,

on fire

i can sing rhymed prose.

 

my head from dusty earth

my heart from silky wine

 

we are here only when heavy

clouds collide,

earth has always seemed too far

away, but

 

who would not approve

air to breathe,

 

in my hand

a long term memory is made

complete

now no compact