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
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?