You are somewhere but you're hidden there;
You are with me in my every step.
I cannot see you yet I feel;
I cannot sense you yet I hear.

You are the shade no-one can catch;
You are the force they cannot make.
You are behind their pale shadows;
The one they're too tired to know.

You are in every flavour t'at I taste;
You live in every drop t'at I drink.
You breathe in every move I make;
You stay with me and ne'er fall apart.

You are the leaf of my autumn shade;
The emeralds of my summer gem.
The orchids of my cold jade stones;
The tulips of my skin and bones.

You are for whom I feel feeble;
You are for whom I have felt hurt.
You are for whom I endure pains;
You are for whom I hate.

But in your presence t'ere's no hate;
For with you there, then love is just love;
Love and hate are like dust and water;
They are separate, and not to be together;

And in your presence t'ere's no fear;
For tears turn into sweet poems t'at I hear;
And t'ose bleak midnight dreams shalt end;
Whenst in your arms, my very best friend.

And you are told once more and again;
By my untouched love and laughters;
From my untold hands and right words;
From the eyes of insane poetry.

And you are there, all over again;
You make things right whenst they do not;
You are in the cold tales I make;
You saw my first love bloom and grow.

You are in my words and prayers;
In the dreams t'at live forever.
You are the strength t'at makes me write;
You are in me all through the day and night.

You are my blood and my sacrifice;
You are my truth, honesty, and lies;
You are my moon, stars, and my hectic skies;
Your soul is mine and shalt ne'er die.

You are the hate and filth t'at I say;
The happiness t'at comes in my way;
You are on my mind night and day;
You are my poem in April and May.

You are my eggplant and cherry tree;
My green lime and sweet strawberry.
My purple lavender and rose;
My morning dew and midnight gloss.

You are the green moors I walk on;
The curved path I always stride on.
That my heart beats when I am beside you;
With a love genuine and passion so true.

You are the sun by my clouded grass;
The light t'at soften hearts' anger;
The love behind one's gritted teeth;
The truth behind deformed false mirth.

You are my ginkgo tree and peach;
The shine among the filth and foul.
My savour sea and fragrant beach;
Cure for the darkness of my soul.

You are my summer and fall tales;
My exact said and written words.
The blood and flesh of my red cells;
The light and promise of my worlds.

You are in my skin and my mind;
You need just love to make me blind.
You are in my ears and my hair;
I feel your presence everywhere.

You are the miracles that I see;
The poetry God carries with me.
The dramas I sing of and write;
The true love that makes things sound right.

You are the one lie that sounds true;
The ******* ****** heart desires.
The essence of my breath and *******;
The frank lust of mine in the West.

You are the thirst my heart falls for;
You are the rain that soaks it wet.
You are the fertile grass it grows;
The autumnal tears that it sheds.

You are the kite that soars up high;
And I shalt be your protective shield.
And whenst you fall with your knee wounded,
My poem's the very drop that makes it heal.

And it speaks of you with sanity;
And misses you with high verity.
And with such warmth t'at is still mine;
It longs to keep you in the heart and mind.

It's thus the immortal in you;
T'at makes it sees with clarity.
T'at it loves you eternally;
T'at it seeks you again and again.

T'at it wants you all over again;
T'at it wants you for no clean reason.
T'at it wants you now and once more;
T'at it wants you like never before.

T'at it loves you like it loves itself;
T'at it loves you with no falsehood.
T'at it loves you like it loves life;
T'at it loves you and shall die for you.

Ah, Immortal, whatfore art thou doing t'is dark afternoon?
My heart is alone in abrupt silence;
And it wants to disturb thee again;
It wants to run after and play with you.

Ah, Immortal, but doth thou tread some-times, on our fav'rite green path?
The one smelling like musk and red berries;
The one thou took to the most;
On which thou called me whenst thou got lost.

Ah, Immortal, and I ran fast like a blind nymphet;
For I was afraid of finding thee not;
Ah, I was in a ruffle skirt and with my poetry book;
Thou said I's pretty after one brief look.

Ah, Immortal, and we crafted one dusk ode together;
And t'at dusk grew more beautiful altogether;
With a soul as handsome as thine by my side;
Brightened by the streets' thrilling fluorescent light.

Ah, Immortal, and so I've written another ode today;
T'at maketh me remember everything without delay;
All joy t'at we had t'at night, on t'at lil' path;
A portrait of once live, but now vanished worlds.

Ah, Immortal, and such an ode maketh me smile again;
It feels like thou art here, my lover and best friend;
And the only lover I shalt ever run for;
The only man for whom my heart beats fast.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is sweeter t'an t'is green ode;
A piece of innocent poem t'at thou shalt like;
Just like the ones thou always read;
By my side, with thy head laid by my orange lap.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is more honest than my own poems;
For it thinks absurd not, of what is absurd;
Like t'is immortal passion it feels for thee;
Ah, for thy soul t'at too is immortal.

Ah, Immortal, but now that I've written this poem;
I shalt retreat to a peaceful rest;
I've laid about what's within my chest;
I'm ready for a sleep's endless virtual doom.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt say in my oblivion;
T'at I have reached my destination;
The very place where there's no thee;
The desolate ice with thee gone.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt sit in my unconscience;
Keep me asleep in my confusion;
T'at I escape, and escape not from my guilt;
T'is endless guilt of loving thee.

Ah, Immortal, to whom I still love, and love again;
Whom t'is very heart still adores;
For whom my prayers still breathe;
And for whom my tears still flow.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt dream in my limbo;
Of a dream t'at leaves me conscious;
T'at there's no more love between I and thou;
A love t'at once made our hearts luminous.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt rock me back and forth;
'Till I but wake again to this world;
And the horrid sands of Yorkshire;
Where I smellest none but dire loneliness.

Ah, Immortal, but dream of me—make me unaware;
And let t'is love for thee step forward;
Sending me back my triumph;
Shoving me up with virility.

Ah, Immortal, let such a bashful moon distract me;
But turn me not about my long sleep;
And with its horns slaughter my love;
That I shalt wake up loved and unloved.

Ah, Immortal, let the grim grimace slander me;
Let t'is love for thee hinder me;
But ****** not my love for thee;
And the longing for thee to be by my side.

Ah, Immortal, and stay with me but in my words;
T'at I am able to tackle the worlds;
To **** its failed virtues and vice;
Its cruel pride and fatal conventions;

Ah, Immortal, thou canst feed me through my bare poems;
And attend more of my illusions;
Take to my imaginations;
Breathe through the words and circles I draw.

Ah, Immortal, thou canst witness my weird footsteps;
Sleep on my imaginary lap,
And leave thy heart to me by one side,
T'at I canst but rub and play with it again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave to me your heartbeat;
And I wilt adorn it with warm heat;
That like you are, it shalt stay immortal;
Like a love poem I'll craft in fall.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave me thy love to me;
T'at I shalt kiss and cheer it every day;
For it has more than what I have to say;
For it speaks to me with proud sanctity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy hours to me;
T'at I canst write you a good poem;
A poem t'at breathes through thy chest and hands;
T'at thou canst feel my presence again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou outta' leave thy blood to me;
T'at I canst shield, I canst protect it;
T'at I shalt act like its owner,
With a thousand smiles and promises.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy flesh to me;
T'at I canst heal and empower it;
T'at I canst cast spells on its wounds;
T'at it shan't dwell rott'n forever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy doom to me;
T'at I can retrieve your old laugh;
Although I'm young and I am not her;
I'll love you again and again, more than ever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst be mortal to me;
But I shalt still call you my immortal;
Like I once did when we were young;
With the blossoms of love in our hearts.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my promise is true;
I'll shed my blood and flesh for you;
From such shalt flow fresh spring water;
T'at shalt heal thy cracked wounds and lungs.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love's not a lie;
For if thou rot, then I too shalt die;
For my gripped breath too shalt be broken;
For my vain heart too shalt die hurt.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my heartbeat;
Thou art part of me and my wit;
For t'ere's no poem but one about you;
For t'ere's no dream but of our first love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my thousand skies;
For t'ere's no love but by your side;
And no words written but for thee;
Thou art the voice of my clarity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my life;
Thou art inside me as thou wished;
Thou art a breath t'at withers not;
Thou art a thought t'at leaves me not.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see I shalt not wander;
My love for thee is clear and again;
And one intact, and whole, and untorn;
And one civil, and pure, and unburnt;
Thou art my light, my cold fire and warm ice.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see t'at my love is chaste;
For whenst betrayed, it betrays not;
For it cuts not our story short;
For it stays with thee still, in blood and flesh;
For it thinks of you yet, in its wake and rest.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is genuine;
For it shoulders guilt on its own;
A guilt t'at comes from loving thee;
For loving you is what makes it live.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love lives forever;
For thy remembrance gives it breath;
And thy memory frays its hate;
You are the love t'at's ne'er too late.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou'rt my perfection;
Thou attend my poetic arts and visions;
Thou art the precision it makes;
The decision it firms hard life on.

Ah, Immortal, and it screams for you by its walls;
And calls your name again and again;
T'at it keeps you in a heartbeat;
T'at it shalt seek you in its every sense.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is not hate;
For it knows not what hate is itself;
Like it knows not hatred on its own;
For it knows only bland virtues.

Ah, Immortal, so thou wilt see my passion is true;
T'at this etched love is not a disease;
T'at my love shalt hatch again and again;
Give birth to frank newborn poems and thoughts.

Ah, Immortal, and so being alone tortures me;
It renders me dead and my sanity;
Like an empty chair in its solitude;
I sing to myself, and no Eolian lute;

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see by my virile sense;
T'at I longeth for thee again and again;
T'at thou'rt the thought I verily ponder;
T'at thou'rt the only love I embrace.

Ah, Immortal, and I'll embrace thee again and again;
No matter how long, nor how many times;
My insane guilt is in loving thee not;
And knowing not how to tell of thy love.

Ah, Immortal, so I shalt proceed but to love thee;
And keep thee alive in my heart and mind;
And keep thee breathing in my story;
A story t'at, I hope, comes back alive one day.

Ah, Immortal, and thou see my nonsense is true;
Though full of holes and discolours;
Telling words is to me obligatory;
For it keeps my love in order.

Ah, Immortal, and t'ese diffused hues are but thine;
Just like my whole journal of tales;
T'at I shalt recall with virtues;
Because 'tis t'ere—t'at promise of mine.

Ah, Immortal, so thou'rt my artistic vision;
My endemic paints and phrases;
My arts' reposes and relapses;
My chanted spells all over the place.

Ah, Immortal, I craft thy poems with precision;
T'at all is unique in their nature and order;
T'at it preserves love and enigmas;
And so it preserves for you, just what you love.

Ah, Immortal, and I tell my tales with perfection;
T'at thou become my whole saturations;
Thou owneth the major gold'n utopias;
And preserve still, t'ese hovering dystopias!

Ah, Immortal, and I've seen in thee such myopic senses,
T'at what is iconic seems atomic,
T'at what is static seems dynamic,
Ah, but all seem such—in thee!

Ah, Immortal, I've too seen in thee such pictures;
Pictorial and ethereal in such a sense;
But malevolently, and fervently true;
Ah, Immortal, thou art my powerful hero!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the magic of my art;
The very clay of earth I step on;
The very suit of life I wear on;
The immortal mind among those mortal!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the soil of my being;
The very breath that I leave awake;
The primary cause I think of;
My multitude of secret reasons!

Ah, Immortal, and I want but' make thee—make thee mine;
We canst drink together and feast;
On t'is love and artistic gleams;
Of  joyed literary and poetic pleasures!

Ah, Immortal, and our young souls shall ne'er decay;
We hath more than t'is world shall say;
We own even more in our poetry;
We own every part of immortality!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt see my virtues are true;
I lied not to thee and about our love;
For our love is what art canst portray;
Whilst art itself is my pal and friend!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt witness my plain truth;
For t'ere's no mirrored truth than thine;
And even the truth of wan reality;
The reality of joy, tears, and gloom.

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt admit 'tis mine;
Thy very heart and eternal conscience;
Thy cordial mind and vast concerns;
Aye, such are all—all mine, my darling dear!

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt confess such's mine;
Thy very mind and ordinary senses;
And too thy literary and recreational thoughts;
Ah, and thy visions too are mine, my gorgeous dear!

Aye, Immortal, so such is a tale of my love;
T'at brews and boils just because of thee;
T'at loves and hates within thy spheres;
T'at cries and mourns whenst thou art gone!

Aye, Immortal, and thou hath seen what true love's like;
Just like the one I hath for thee;
And I want thee more like I want autumn;
I adore thee more like I do winter!

Aye, Immortal, how canst I find true love then;
Whenst all is blurry and clear not;
With thee gone and my poetry cut short;
I shalt but dream not of marriage!

Aye, Immortal, for such wedded bliss is with thine;
The king of my heart, *******, and mind;
The fairytale I read again and again;
The one old song I keep'n singing thru!

Aye, Immortal, and I longeth for thee just like t'at;
My love hides behind every labyrinth;
Where'n t'ere are green and red and gray clouds;
Where'n poetry is recited out loud!

Ah, Immortal, and thou'th seen t'ere's no-one but thou;
Thou'rt the simplistic art I seek;
The one I'm with whenst strong and weak;
The dream I hath, every day of the week!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'is naughty ode is genuine;
For 'tis mere' thy heart it longeth to win;
T'at it ever boasts proudly of;
T'at it ever wants to get, and again!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'ere's no heart but t'at' thine;
To be entwined with t'at of mine;
To be accounted down the line;
The one I speak of, and I hide behind!

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'ese phrases are but true;
For t'ere's no hero nor villain like you;
Who knows much 'bout truth and untruth;
Who sang perfectly 'bout our own youth.

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'is pleasure is all thine;
Physical and mental and of all designs;
For thou owneth my whole love labyrinth;
And all the tasty scents in its maze.

Ah, Immortal, and thus all t'is poetry is thine;
Just like my severed soul and breath;
For without thee, all t'ese dreams are but of death;
A dream of grief, t'at I shan't find rest;

And Immortal, thus t'is longing is thine;
For thou only canst amend such dreams;
And brings to it candlelight rainbows;
Just like the promise of my true love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou shalt see my plain love is true;
For it fails just anyone but you;
And thus I want thee here with me;
I want thee still, like ever before.

Ah, thee, standing beneath the crescent moon;
Dark in thy chest of white substance,
Impure in thy porcelain light,
Corrupted by the bashful night,

And who said thou could understand;
Thou were menial and rigid and cold,
Thou talked away and danced to the light,
Thou made lavish for me a nightmare.

Thou, who seemest just like granite to me
As hard as its surface could be,
And although it had a clean look,
Thou hath been wronged by thy own sins.

I am a threat to thy aura,
An abnormal cloud and satire;
Like a sickness, a secret oblivion,
Thou dream of me not in red and grey.

I am a fly to thy barren tales;
A trouble to thy singing flute.
But who said she could fake a dance;
By the divine Eolian lute?

And thou, whou seem just like granite to me;
As hard as its surface could be,
And though it had a clean look,
Thou hath been cursed by thy old sins,

Thy hands, made ***** by her touch;
Furtive in the most fatal sense,
And thy charm, handsome but mindless,
Knocked my heart torn, drowned and lifeless,

What if I feed thee to my heart;
Whenst all thou doth is crush it again,
What if I let thee tear its parts;
By the love riddles of thy friends,

What if t'is resolute ode is dead;
Leaving me no more beat and breath,
What if my breath hath no more pause,
But hurts and pains and screams and dies.

I dream not of thy lucid words,
They are not beauty to my prose.
I dream not of thy flavoured verse,
Which stays fictitious to my cause.

I dream not of thy flagrant smile,
That lasts only for a while more.
I dream not of thee as I should,
They are a mirror of falsehood.

I dream not of thy mortal blood,
It likes to lie and fool my heart.
I dream not of thy diseased mind,
I shalt be fine with my crooked tears.

I dream not of thy paradise,
For in there shalt be thou and she;
Laid in the thoughts of thy naked lies,
Only poetry dies away with me.

I tried not to cry, but still I cried;
I shouted to the full moon, asking where my love was.
I asked the moon to be honest with me;
in its red colour looking bright and marvelous.
Its poetry sounded very funny, and yet
It didn't want to answer my question,
It was too hesitant too look into my eyes,
And said my love was nowhere;
For someone else had taken it somewhere.

And in my dream I did not see you again,
Like I had done the very night before.
I was plunged into a world of ills,
Where all patients but cringed and screamed
At the top of their acrylic voices.
I was painted by my dream as a terror,
A poisonous lilac that all the vibes it had
Ran away in disgust and fear from me.
I had a bad dream, a faint tear, a nightmare.
And when I woke up, you were still not here;
You were not hugging me like you hugged her;
You were not kissing me like you did her;
You were not calming me
And not fantasizing me at all.

And I cried, I cried, and I cried again,
I was befallen by my own happiness and hopes,
And I have no more power and a friend,
In such a world makes me get lost.

Somebody very sweet told me tonight:
"You are my foreign poetry. Sugar to my salty tongue. Candies to my bitter lungs. Blushes to my cold cheeks. A foreign lilac with her own ways and beauty. At first I was afraid to fall in love with you because you are a poet, and I am not. I was shy about my ordinary words, which are perhaps nothing to your compelling spells and admirable phrases. I like your choice of words, and I like your beauty. You smell like a foreign moon, from an unknown time and space, and yet your universe is the same as mine. You own the same fate as I do, as a human. And your memories are just too enthralling for an ordinary human like me to understand. You move with speed. You speak with tact. And your sincerity is even more ****** than you are. A sweet foreign poem I had never imagined trying to understand, especially with a wounded heart, that had been slit open by a thousand swords. You are too chaste and yet tempting to me, as a foreigner. And your foreign idioms, sometimes, just surprise me. And your poetic fervour. My nightmares are gone in your presence. My hands are not cold, and so my blood flows again. My heart thrills whenever I am about to see you, and yet I cannot bring myself to see you too much, because I am afraid I will crush you. You are like a fragile little rose to me. A lyrical song that shall never fade, but too fades on a certain day. I am too scared that this will end, just like the last (one) did. I do not want you to end. I do not want our story to end whatever befalls us. And so it is safest for us not to begin anything. Because I am afraid these beautiful things shall just rot and die away--like they usually do. I cannot write poems and yet you made me write one. If only I'd ever had dreams like you do; or if I could dream of anything at all, my dreams would be about you. Because you made me see, with your own poetic ways, what life means and the very being I am meant to be. But I am too far from you; I am with thee in sight and yet cannot reach thy heart. I am afraid such a precious little piece shall be broken when mine. So I shan't ever wish to break it. Yet one thing I shall hold thee to know; none has ever filled it like you have. You filled it with love when it cried. You fed it and lived with it and cherished it. You helped it up when it fell. And none of these world's beauties are like yours; warm and shiny and tantalising and maliciously foreign. Ah, nothing like I've ever seen before. Not one, Estefannia."

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.
My dear solitary Wayne.
I want to write about Wayne again tonight;
with his head in my lap and a candle
by my side.
With a torn heart that has healed,
A sordid love that has recovered.
Wayne, in tonight's candlelight looking damp
and fragile,
Like the cheap autumnal winds
He has struggled to step out from.
Wayne, I can see winds in his hair;
The sea in his eyes;
Which are too thick and oceanic blue.
Wayne, with his breath in front of me,
Like a pure puff of wintry smoke,
He chants loving spells again and again.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And guess how this heart could meet with thine;
And think how my poetry should be written--
if only there was not a sign of thee here.
Thou art the very thread that I write,
A breath that inspires,
A heart that is ne'er too tired to smile.
A dream I had carried all along--before that one
sunny day.
A dream I had troubled myself to think about.
Ah, Wayne.
If only I could heal that sadness in thy eyes;
Although with a tongue of satires and lies;
Then I would do so now, with thee here,
Ah, but at a night too loud and surly,
I can but barely see thee here.
I feel thy golden hair, smooth like silk in my hand,
And thy curved cheeks which oft' smile like
a little boy.
Ah, Wayne, but why art thou with me here;
I, who is neither popular nor unpopular,
I, who is neither famous nor infamous,
I, who says and writes just like a poet does,
I, an irregular poet, with some odd, lame greasy odes.
I, the phantom this land wants not to see,
I, and my secrets that they know not about.
I, who remains futile to the whole sneering stars;
and I, who is neither blind, nor able to see.
I, who in her prayers is consumed,
By the cold flaws of the universe,
I, who oft' cannot see my own skin.
I, who has but lost the warmth of my hands,
And whose heart is ice cold, buried deep in its own
Shrieking labyrinth of deadened peace.
Ah, and I, who sometimes longs just to hear thy voice,
And dream of a night of bliss with thee.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And I, thy futile friend,
With a lost conscience I have given to thy hand,
I write only a vain poem again,
I, who has denied my own taste and grace
And dreamed of bitterness, once, and disgrace.
For perhaps thou wilt not think nor say of me;
For my beauty is not a beauty to thee;
For my beauty, to thee, exists only in sleep.
When thou saith I am beautiful,
I blush and become forgetful,
But a saying is not faithful
And words are false and not cordial.
I, a friend, sometimes hear stories of another friend;
A friend for whom thy heart serenely longs;
But a vague one, like one of summer's rejected old songs.
But what about me--and my own heart;
A scar is left there that pierces it apart;
A scar that perhaps shan't heal again;
Ah, Wayne, for thou hear me not, nor see my pain.
A secret hidden deep in my lofty lungs;
A fleshy wound I have carried all along.

And I wonder why she is not here;
While she is not me, and I am her not;
And all those of her sound so lithe and bare;
But, ah, in such silence I shan't turn to care.

And I wonder why she sees you not;
And hugs you not when it freezes to cold;
Shoulder you not behind the watery rain;
Shredding not your tears, nor your grief in pain;

But I am not her, and I am not thine;
I shrink by thee still under her rain;
And in thy charms so shall she live.
Perhaps thou shalt never know,
But I am here like I am now,
Clogged in the wrath of my beauty,
Who sometimes seeks and seeks thee not.
And I am still here like now,
Frozen in the air of my poetry,
Cold in such tears that can't lie;
Caught at the eastern wings of the sky,
Unable to move, 'till thou again pass by.

Towards the Yule t'is chilled saison
All but bears wrath and outrage and more;
Then when the grey wolves hath recounted
Drink of the leaves their thrilled cold-beer
And stride within the flame's tavern
Then makyth my heart their festive cheer
Shooing the ghosts of yester-year.

But they shan't go, for they die no more;
Their loveliness is here writ' still,
But they'll set forth and slay me well.
And aye, Thou who hast set me ill;
And flicker away 'till Thou cometh again.
'Till thou at last be with me no more;
Thy dew is cold and full of gold;
But Thou cannot catch mine and Thine,
Thou hate me in both gold and ink;
Thou left me in a tale half-told.

And being bent and wrinkled, in unform
Thou asked me to find bitter earth
And lay to death behind the hearth
Whilst Thou drink and cheer merrily
With Thy earthly comrades by me;
With Margot and Frances by thy arms;
Thou hid me by their frontal charms!

And to Thee oh, my Onesome Lord;
Ye old Sovereign, ye old dis-deign;
Thou hath pinned me down into pain;
And made all that trifle in vain;
What mockery doth Thou want me see;
That hath liar night and brutal skies.

In such exquisite loneliness
Thou had me dream beneath the sun;
Feeling an unsure leisure
A feeling t'at was not sober
A feeling far behind the truth
A feeling donned by such false wit.
A feeling dried by tempests' air;
A feeling that put me at stake.
Ah, and Thou allowed me to suffer;
Whilst I prayed so that Thou couldst hear.

And the conscience that came with me?
Thou flayed it by the dairy's barns;
Like a small meaningless croquette;
Like a corpse swelling by deceit.
Thou hath donned a cold, wrong spirit;
To whom I ran and not hesitated,
Then turned in disgust in my sight,
Leaving me broke to grow bold again.

Ask Thee what ghosts I dreamt upon?
The ghosts of my own lips and feet,
The dead ghosts loved by everyone,
That makyth the cut stars reek with fear,
And themselves smell of agony,
And slay the memories that I cheered,
(Such as a hope of my fashion),
Making my heart trembling with fear.

Where are the joys my heart hath won?
And the lips I was pressed upon,
All souls are filled, loathsome, and gone,
And the handsome glance that once shone;
Aye! Where are the cheeks so feat and clear;
That bade my heart his valour don?
Who knows what is inside my fear;
Who knows whose was that paragon.

Night: ask me not what I have done
Nor what Thou hath that can cheer me,
I am in love with myself alone,
With the ******* and kind in me.

I saw my love in 'other world,
By the sides of a damp city,
By the barns of faithless forests,
Under the name of Coventry,

I stared deeply into his eyes,
Scared of finding unconscious lies,
I told him scriptures of past tales,
Behind three cups of wine and ale,

He parted and left all alone,
Burning aside all single words,
In love with the sickly false worlds,
Dismantling spirits he had borne,

I was demolished and lonely,
Smothered by violet solitude,
Not one loveliness could heal me,
Not even my Eolian flute,

But soon I found my honest Lord,
Left adrift by disruptive worlds,
I saw Him in sleep and poetry,
I felt His words strongly in me,

I learned and read with two red eyes,
With a rage on furious evenings,
I squinted into the dried tepid skies,
Firm to thunder and music sounds,

I tore through my religion,
I passed by lone oblivions,
All were plain and spiritual,
All were lurid and magical,

All was poetry, that one of mine,
I was stunned, my idioms were blind,
I had found the scent of my soul,
A faithful show I'd strained to hold,

And all was neither silent nor drowned,
But a reality that never frowned,
A frugality that had found its league,
My heart healed and got no longer sick,

And all sprinted towards another way,
A way to which I had none to say,
A delight like the sun's violent rays,
Vanished worlds were real to me that day,

And there was the music of the stars,
The swift dance of the heavens' bars,
I knew my God was not that far,
I could see Him with my heart ajar,

And I too danced to a fairy song,
That I'd drained to sing all along,
To bow and thrill by my poetry,
To hail His instance there with me,

And the world too was dressed in rags,
A dead end blinding to their age,
And their worries and frayed hustles,
Mocked by their cloaks and green barrels,

And all mornings would sound empty,
For as far as my eyes could see,
I would dream in my shy prayers,
Asking bounties from the Giver,

And feel the salt among the sea,
Witness the cupboards of the stars,
Watch the moon take its long night walk,
Hear dusk and clouds hold their late talk,

And kiss the sands within my hands,
Cherish the flower of my senses,
Shine like the sun all over again,
Be relieved from heartaches and pains,

Be healed from wounds and agonies,
Be free as grouse and butterflies,
Be pure and free and fair and clean,
Bear forgiveness to thy worst sins,

Be hefty and feisty and sweet,
Be witty and solid and bold,
Be tough in rain and bloodied heat,
Be hardy in illness and cold,

And to seal comfort on my chest,
To my senses in the whole round,
Whilst no wind yet brewed in the West,
And the lost bits were to be found.