I was a bird
پرنده ای بودم
In the sky
From your eyes...
...در آسمانی از چَشمانِ تو
When you didn't see me flying
در آن هنگام
که پروازم را حس نمی کردی

Why are your eyes so beautiful?!
چرا چَشمانِ تو آنقدر زیباست!؟
That I released the lock of hair
To your wide blue sky...
که من موهایم را
...در آسمانِ پهنِ آبیِ تو رها کردم

Blow holes in convention
make art that disturbs the status quo

Whist now, love
speak quietly,
and keep your symbol,
close about you.
Only meet in darkness,
while this zealotry
prevails,

for they will
raze the sacrosanct to
filth of unkempt alleyways,
in mutilated outrage of
their tyrannous brigades...

Pray,

stay your song
inside yourself,
go placid into nothingness,
say little of your learning
hood the wisdom of your word,

They will come,
these new Inquisitors,
with torches for their narrative,

our difference is a Witchcraft,

and the Witches must be burned...

These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.