I.
When the writhing wind ceases
Its gallop across your bone-carved keys
So that the silence sings you to pieces
And you are whittled down to dust-trodden pleas,
.
The scarlet shoes will kick apart
Your black-ironed, fading heart.
.
II.
When your flute tips the hat of time
And the pale meteor fills its crater,
So your echo cracks the old man’s brain of lime
Whose seeping flood drowns the newborn satyr,
.
The rotting apple will kindly bite
Your musical soul of spite.
.
III.
When the tailbone aches
For the memory of a leather-crinkled state,
Such that the animal-body takes
Your body to fill the copper-rusted plate,
.
The fleeing sky will strike down
The much too greedy, blood-splattered gown.
.
IV.
When the winged flowers fly too high,
It will recognize the sound of a world’s infinite goodbye.
