Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Leslie Morales

Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastShadows keep piling up as surfacesIn white, in paint too representativeHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Of meaning like these—the world created byMère and Père Chose are walking away from theHe terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,The mortal architect had brought to life,Along the walls are only empty niches,By the design of our own silent eyesLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Are muffled into silence that refuses—Now that you notice it—have just moved pastFor any part of them we can make outBetween the high and the low, in this night.Away, my songs, must we goLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk."Now it's my turn to sing!"

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