The wooden embalmment’s twined ‘bout
The mud of ants which swell in hills
Upon the golden earth by which the
Bamboos lie naked for their shed’d
Silk of golden tan runs upon the gritty
Earth, was moist in tears as the night
Bade, ephemeral good bye to the sky.
The hardish earth with its cracking pebbles
Which scintillated from thorn to thorn,
On every grass laden with beauty while
The bees blew note, one another, through the
Keys of their lutes, engrasped all of the
Dirt of men, unclear by the fog,
Where bloomed, the eucalyptus from verdure husks.
The mango grass pink, in blush embedded,
Ran upon torrents of bloody earth,
Seeding onto paths, ash smothered, carried
By feet of men setting ablaze the thicketed
Woods in debauched fires which moved onto
A path full of gold, away from the orange scathe,
Rich in solitude, a solace for a penance.
Their slit tongue which ran through pits
As their leather skin slept; the shadows
Mounted with the growing sun of the
Woods, of that unclothed foreigner onto
Whose zenith the eagle looked and
Blessed with talons as her eyes moved
Heavenwards and down to earth.
The fleeting ants dragged chords of
A throat and the falling leaves and
The rising grass each a rhythm did
Take, with their sharp veins or with
Blunt furs, each amalgamated in inflorescenced
Beauty of a single shade which ran about,
As all did peep upon the black shadow against the green.
“A stranger ye be” murmured the twisting
Path as the leaves crossed or adhered by steps
Upon the gummed soil, where the old jack
Lay, whose essence grew with his age and
Whose sap now dribbled thick and slow
Shared by all when the sparrow did sprint, in
A random chaos, from bough to bough.
The cashews submerged as the water bubbled
In the halved path, beside which the tree
Uttered, “Where be path, upon which he leads?
Won’t he pause to back mine beauty or to kick
Mine leaves? Won’t he bear his naked foot by the
Cold, smooth soil, fertile, rich in life,
A splendor in luxury, a varied entity.
Which strange music flows in his ears?
The roars of metal beyond our walls?
The clangs of rocks across our flocks?
Who be the weaver, the tailor wing of his song?
Whose words fall, in blithe, as frost by
Storm, by name of spear, unaware to
Our soft land, to my luscious deer.
Which strange paradise is lost in his eye?
Shall he not rise from the white sediments?
Sway to my feet where he stands embraced
In the eagle’s shadow, open winged! Shall
He not open his lips to blow me a kiss?
Shall he not open his eyes to see
That with inquisition and spy the woods do spree”
