Grey cat, grey whiskers
to doodle look good.
Grey rain, bobbing umbrellas
in songs and asia; in images old.
Grey smoke, decaying walls
in London of Dickens, and steam trains.
Grey of the eye, walking along pavements
in the heart of the deceived, but who plods far.

In the early morn I wake up
when the sun has not yet swallowed the earth;
I can see myself, fair as in a mirror
and look back and forth, for time becomes a plaything.
Crossing all barriers, the eye stands entranced
by the beauty of comings and goings, by firmness
that not concedes to treachery; love that be rain,
to shower upon worthy and unworthy alike; and judgment,
that falls sooner or later, whether believed in or not,
but in many guises, and then proceeds on many paths.
That time when it is neither dark of man's soul
nor light of god's prayer, is when
I sift the stones from the pebbles; the man in me
strongest, but the one who hopes and dreams
that the sunny morning is not yet far, the globe still young.

04/20/2011

Posted on 04/20/2011
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