I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The

Love, Why Have You Sought The Horde Of Spearsmen, Why The Tent Achilles Pitched Beside The River-ford?

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

Cheat Me Not With Time, With The Dull Ache Of Flesh, For All Flesh Turns, Even The Loveliest Ankle And Frail Thigh, To Bitterest Dust.

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.