I take my heart, old flower bent on petals.
Man filled with pain.
Ancient faces lie in snow. Faces are withered again.
Clouds permeate the sky; the sea gulls crawl
up out of the edge of the world.
Its eyes speak tears-speak; sing sad songs of
We fill the world with verse.
Verse is reason.
She walks upstairs and down; pain fills her kneecaps.
She cries for someone to call to her in the dead of
the night when darkness remains;
sands are burdened and permeate the soul,
the highest mountain that withers old flowers.
The planet will rise from ashes. The kings are songs
of flowers. Skin glistens, dew and rain;
the wind moves, heaves. The sea heaves. I whisper
to mountains, "My love!" His eyes burdened by
the burden of himself. His eyes see women knitting things.