Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
I prefer red chile over my eggs
and potatoes for breakfast.
Red chile ristras decorate my door,
dry on my roof, and hang from eaves.
They lend open-air vegetable stands
historical grandeur, and gently swing
with an air of festive welcome.
I can hear them talking in the wind,
haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping
tongues of old men, licking the breeze.
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
swept to the housetops
on fragrant breezes so fine
petals in the wind
hues flying springtime
when the world has come outside
cherry blossom rain
saffron clouds creeping
in warm sunshine of our days
bluster in moonlight
all around lime trembling trees
and through fragrant fields
in a far flung dream
to be everywhere at once
under diamond stars
blooms have lost petals
there's howling in the valley
a walk in the wind
in the fresh, fragrant season
a walk in wildness
sunlit hair is in my eyes
a walk in chaos
that keeps the pinwheels turning
The wind scatters her hair,
The fragile fabric of her shirt clings to her back.
The wind attempts to push her forward,
As her crowded and crammed mind begins to retract.
Trapped in a memory,
Existing in the exhausting grasp of the past,
Her world; wrapped up in a few moments,
A box of trauma and pain that has yet to pass.
Wild, red roses undulate, in the windswept way,
Purple peonies flutter, along the breeze highway,
Blue and pink daisies waltz, in pathways of sun,
Delicate lilies waver, in gentle cream commotion.
Green grasses ripple, going to hued sunset end,
And orange begonias quiver, in a gold weekend,
Black and red irises shake, under bluest of blue,
As peach dahlias quake, on lanes fresh and new.