From caves
we come,
with sweet-smelling vials
fermented from afar.

The witch-doctor wakes
the comatose child
and grants the success
was his alone.

While the vials spill
and stars are handed out meanings
with only an atom of self-worth.

Come to me
from your caves.
Flock across the sky
cawing in riotous turmoil -

And I will know
That you knew
So little at first
and so little at last.

I would trade your season for mine,
But winter is more comforting
Than the flowers of spring.

Harvest the snow,
And there you have luxury.
The white sand of my country,
And the pure radiance of yours.

On the strings
We have slithers of ice
And polished brass
Is the wind.

Hear the percussive surge of river
Or the silence seducing empty roads.

We have found our orchestra of frosty season.
Conducted by currents in the sky.

There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways

There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.

It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.

Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is

…To make the tea?

Distract me, humble vibration.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind
Give me a pattern to find
And I will happily rip from reality
Like a shredded letter from an old foe.

Distract me, fleeting words.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind.
Give me a motive to find
And I will dutifully leaf through your pages
Like flat stones skim the water’s simple strata.

Distract me, passive chi.
Preoccupy this preoccupied me.
Give me a flavour to find
And I will reach for the bottom
Like the proboscis of a bee
Innocent search for mother’s riches.