Have you seen that land?

 

 

Have you seen that land

where pleasant tales are told without end?

 

Have you seen that village

where folks neither fade nor age?

 

Have you seen that garden

where wild roses never wither?

 

Have you seen that spring

where waters of joy never cease?

 

Have you seen that orchard

where the scents of wine-fruits never die?

 

Have you seen that shade

where the warm wind whistles forever?

 

Have you dreamt of that land

where Laughter?s beams bury Earth?s barn?

 

Have you seen that land?

 

 

 

Wind Song

 

 

Wind, oh wind

slave to fire, master of rain

 

Come in your spiral beauty

with dancing dust;

 

Come in the sweeping likeness

of bellowing brooms.

 

When you left, I heard

only dry whimpers of woe

 

For the bee has lost its bearing of petals

And there?s no promise of pollen and honey.

 

For long the streets hold signs of filth,

fresh smell of stumps of stains of slime...

 

Return the bliss, return

Seedlings still cry for a caress of twigs;

 

Trees have long missed their magic of dance

And singing birds hold their breath.

 

Return oh return, well-pool

of waves among crippled crops.

 

 

 

Love Song

 

 

When Love spoke to me

it was cotton flesh on my solitude of bones:

 

"Defy the rock-deafness of Earth,

Burn the twigs of baneful barns;

Sow in the sour spittle of soils

Weed, tend and water them all."

 

Flicker-storms of Love

through longitudes of lonesome furrows

I follow

sinking seeds in the lurking oasis of Hell.

 

"Sow in the sour spittle of soils

Weed, tend and water them all."

 

When Love spoke

I became a rebel of the blood

in a convent of scorpions

without a sting to call my own.

 

I robbed a dumb godhead

to fill the silent altars of men

with the grape laughter

of corn and wine.

 

Love is the tail-tongue of rain

lisping tuberous notes in twining seasons

 

the immortal kiss of morning dews

on naked shrubs

 

the cherub utterance of stars

when a twig of rainbow hangs deciduous

between my teeth

 

one blue paste of cotton flesh

around splinters of dream-bones

 

Love is

the legend of a poem

without its pain.

 

 

 

Silence

 

 

I know the colour of your silence

darkly as dark could be

in this deathly dawn

where a padlock

in every mouth

solves the mystery

of rude ravings.

 

In this hapless season

where a friendly martial grip

mangles the mere mumbles

of hungry throats?

 

I know the colour of your silence

red, raw like bleeding flesh

like the expired breath

of a slit goat, I know

the colour of silence is white

blank as the full emptiness

in a deadman?s eyes

blank as the sudden stillness

of a broken love symphony.

 

I know the colour of your silence

yellow

as the feverish

voice-

lessness

of a groggy dream?

 

And because I see Silence

in a million-and-one colours

of the chameleon

in your long, insensate face

in this talkative town

I feel not, hear not the echoes

of pain; I hear only

the beautiful laughters

of others at other people?s pain.

 

Silence,

the blue-black lip-

stick of fear

or what?