As my legs brushed the bulrush,
As my hairs bristled fibres,
Long and slender brushed they by me,
As I traversed the golden whiteness,
As I crunched the golden snow,
Glistening, shining, in the spring sun,
As the maiden in her bride-gown,
As the delicate, trailing mayflower,
Sparkling white on the prairie,
Vellum soft 'neath scribe's beard,
Flowing like the ocean river,
Speckled grey as starlight clusters,
As the feathers of the starlings,
As the grey of children starving,
There he stoked the strokes of blackness,
Stroking, drawing, marking, scribing,
Drawing dells of deepest darkness,
Marking summits of sweet sharpness,
'Midst the valleys of butter-yellow,
Midst the velvet, whispering whiteness,
Midst the plains of swaying wheat-corn,
Coursed those rivers of ink-black starkness,
Dark as the midnight in icy winter,
Dark as the secrets of youngest maiden,
Dark as the cravings of inner madness,
Black as the heart of yellow sunflowers,
Black as the eyes of hater's glower,
I, the housefly, witnessed these secrets,
With my eyes composed of myriads,
With my senses known to no-one,
With my tender tip-toe foot-pads,
As I tread the path of no-man,
As I licked those tender fibres,
As I dallied 'neath the scriber,
As I fled my pad of scribes,
As I circled the ocean tides.