Rising From The Past, My Shadow Is

Sweet To Me Was Not The Voice Of Man, But The Wind's Voice Was Understood By Me. The Burdocks And The Nettles Fed My Soul, But I Loved The Silver Willow Best Of All.

Natural Thunder Heralds The Wetness Of Fresh Water High Clouds To Quench The Thirst Of Fields Gone Dry And Parched, A Messenger Of Blessed Rain, But This Was As Dry As Hell Must Be. My Distraught Perception Refused To Believe It, Because Of The Insane Suddenness With Which It Sounded, Swelled And Hit, And How Casually It Came To Murder My Child.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

I Should Be Proud To Have My Memory Graced, But Only If The Monument Be Placed... Here, Where I Endured Three Hundred Hours In Line Before The Implacable Iron Bars.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.