Winter will make white circles

over my afflicted heart.

Daylight will irritate;

I'll hurt myself with each song.

My forehead will grow weary of hair 

parted straight and soft.

The scent of June violets 

will be allowed to wither.

My mother will already have ten palms

of ashes over her temples.

No child, blond as corn, 

will grow tall between my knees.

Prowling the tombs, 

I won't see a sky or a wheat field.

By their removal, my crazed heart 

will sleep.

And so the traces 

of what I am searching for 

dissipate into confusion, 

but when I penet rate the Wide Light, 

I won't have to discover it 

ever again.
 
 

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Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy