Cold are your hands, Dream…

You asked me my name, Dream

I said to you I am a wind

Of the earth, a soul, a bannatiran

Trudging the cheek, the face, the forehead

And tears of a dripping thought.

One warmth, one fire on the chill

Your chill.

Hook-fisher are your eyes

Where I saw the morning of the flower

On the valley which escaped the butterflies’ eyes.

You smile, laden with Orion’s belt tilting

On the hour of its own creation. I am lost-

Is this the only time I was born into the light?

A shake of the head speared onto the heaven?

Or one word that is falling

Onto the grass?

Why are your hands cold to the flame of heaven

Which arrests the soul of a voice

That declines to ride the wind?

You stand untying the riddles of your country?

On the hurricanes owned by the sun, sonnets, sayings, thoughts?

Look at these: the heaven that harvests the sunlight

The swallows that speared the skies,

The hawk descending to grip the mid-afternoon

And this: the grassland sparkling with wonder

Laid there gently by the daybreak!

Remove not their right to be born,

These metaphors on the heart of summer-

The raindrop asks the cheek of the earth where it descends

The flame of happiness, the fire on the breast, the clouds where they hide:

The conceiving of the stars to walk on the valley.

Cold are your hands, Dream

One chill of the dawn brother to the night,

The wilderness hums while it passes our feet

On the grass where lengthy shadows are to be born:

Have you seen the death of the dew’s sparkle?