write a poem during daylight hours, and with day,
as with night, the embodiment of magpie cackle
a laughter resounds; at the zenith...
                                                seppuku­;
or as i feel, at the council of Elrond,
with those Celtic ghosts of sirens
once more, candle wax poured into the
blind eyes of Homer to see once more...
into a resurrection of shadows as
thought of embodiment of touch:
that shadows mediate ghostly behaviours and
souls inspect a unifying concept for heretical
deviations of  what became of men
with the power of fractions...
such that Odysseus heard them, as i do,
although in another diversion, once more,
that these be the same sirens,
such as they are, Celtic in origin;
i did indeed pour wax into the eyes of Homer
in order to light a flint for sight in him,
and exposed my ears to the song likewise
kindred to Odysseus,
and too went mad...
                      if only in private, the same lullaby;
so why expect me to be fulfilled with the mundaneness
of what mortals cherish, i wish for a speedier death
having been robbed of a sudden death...
i want a second suddenness, careless as to what
governs life & death: old age -
let me walk through the sudden shutters,
that plague of yours of suddenly turning day to night...
let me pass through this plague once more,
having failed to pass it the first time...
or at least let my ageing superior bury me,
for i have no strength to upkeep a talk of shaded honours,
should all honour be that of oriental principles,
i too am a willing soul to join them from the crippling
standard of what's to be accomplished in the western guise
of wisdom: nowhere else is old age such a curse as here,
when the expulsion of youth begins so early and levers
the gritted tooth's revenge seen later in what's to be
expected via swans' inhibitory kept alliance to the ring,
in joy as in sorrow... i weep my mother's tears,
for no lover was bound to me bold enough to keep a year
in my heart fr me to experience the mundaneness
to rise from a spoon and imagine the sun in the ever changing
form of the moon in daylights... to **** in dreams...
i haven't experienced a single season in Eden...
as in joy, then as too in sorrow...
                       how prematurely i weep over my grave,
engraved in ashen lettering on the Ganges in that Milky
Way toward Kamad(h)enu... until the last orphan,
and until the first adventure, i too, there.