O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and ’scaped,
Haply so ’scaped his mortal snare:  For now
Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
The tempter ere the accuser of mankind,
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell:
Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth
Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast,
And like a devilish engine back recoils
Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The Hell within him; for within him Hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
One step, no more than from himself, can fly
By change of place:  Now conscience wakes despair,
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome still paying, still to owe,
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then
O, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition!  Yet why not some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent:  Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent.  Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery:  Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore?  Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall:  so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face
Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair;
Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
Are ever clear.  Whereof he soon aware,
Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
That practised falsehood under saintly show,
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:
Yet not enough had practised to deceive
Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down
The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount
Saw him disfigured, more than could befall
Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce
He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,
As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides
Access denied; and overhead upgrew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend,
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;                        

Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
And higher than that wall a circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed:
On which the sun more glad impressed his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
That landskip:  And of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair:  Now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.  As when to them who fail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles:
So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend,
Who came their bane; though with them better pleased
Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume
That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse
Of Tobit’s son, and with a vengeance sent
From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound.
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill
Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;
But further way found none, so thick entwined,
As one continued brake, the undergrowth
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed
All path of man or beast that passed that way.
One gate there only was, and that looked east
On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw,
Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt,
At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within
Lights on his feet.  As when a prowling wolf,
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,
Leaps o’er the fence with ease into the fold:
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,
In at the window climbs, or o’er the tiles:
So clomb this first grand thief into God’s fold;
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life
Thereby regained, but sat devising death
To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought
Of that life-giving plant, but only used
For prospect, what well used had been the pledge
Of immortality.  So little knows
Any, but God alone, to value right
The good before him, but perverts best things
To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
Beneath him with new wonder now he views,
To all delight of human sense exposed,
In narrow room, Nature’s whole wealth, yea more,
A Heaven on Earth:  For blissful Paradise
Of God the garden was, by him in the east
Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
Of where the sons of Eden long before
Dwelt in Telassar:  In this pleasant soil
His far more pleasant garden God ordained;
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain as his garden-mould high raised
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And now, divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
With mazy errour under pendant shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Imbrowned the noontide bowers:  Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view;
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap
Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall
Down the ***** hills, dispersed, or in a lake,
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal Spring.  Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea, and her florid son
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye;
Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard,
Mount Amara, though this by some supposed
True Paradise under the Ethiop line
By Nilus’ head, enclosed with shining rock,
A whole day’s journey high, but wide remote
From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend
Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange
Two of far nobler shape, ***** and tall,
Godlike *****, with native honour clad
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
Whence true authority in men; though both
Not equal, as their *** not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valour formed;
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him:
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame
Of nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair,
That ever since in love’s embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Under a tuft of shade that on a green
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers:
The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream;
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
Alone as they.  About them frisking played
All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
His?kithetmroboscis; close the serpent sly,
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat,
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:
When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood,
Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad.
O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold!
Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright
Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,
On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
With his fishing-line of cedar,
Of the twisted bark of cedar,
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
In his birch canoe exulting
All alone went Hiawatha.

  Through the clear, transparent water
He could see the fishes swimming
Far down in the depths below him;
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,

  Like a sunbeam in the water,
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
Like a spider on the bottom,
On the white and sandy bottom.

  At the stern sat Hiawatha,
With his fishing-line of cedar;
In his plumes the breeze of morning
Played as in the hemlock branches;
On the bows, with tail erected,
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
In his fur the breeze of morning
Played as in the prairie grasses.

  On the white sand of the bottom
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
Through his gills he breathed the water,
With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
With his tail he swept the sand-floor.

  There he lay in all his armor;
On each side a shield to guard him,
Plates of bone upon his forehead,
Down his sides and back and shoulders
Plates of bone with spines projecting!
Painted was he with his war-paints,
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure,
Spots of brown and spots of sable;
And he lay there on the bottom,
Fanning with his fins of purple,
As above him Hiawatha
In his birch canoe came sailing,
With his fishing-line of cedar.

  “Take my bait!” cried Hiawatha,
Down into the depths beneath him,
“Take my bait, O sturgeon, Nahma!
Come up from below the water,
Let us see which is the stronger!”
And he dropped his line of cedar
Through the clear, transparent water,
Waited vainly for an answer,
Long sat waiting for an answer,
And repeating loud and louder,
“Take my bait, O King of Fishes!”

  Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
Fanning slowly in the water,
Looking up at Hiawatha,
Listening to his call and clamor,
His unnecessary tumult,
Till he wearied of the shouting;
And he said to the Kenozha,
To the pike, the Maskenozha,
“Take the bait of this rude fellow,
Break the line of Hiawatha!”

  In his fingers Hiawatha
Felt the loose line **** and tighten;
As he drew it in, it tugged so
That the birch canoe stood endwise,
Like a birch log in the water,
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Perched and frisking on the summit.

  Full of scorn was Hiawatha
When he saw the fish rise upward,
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
Coming nearer, nearer to him,
And he shouted through the water,
“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
You are but the pike, Kenozha,
You are not the fish I wanted,
You are not the King of Fishes!”

  Reeling downward to the bottom
Sank the pike in great confusion,
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
To the bream, with scales of crimson,
“Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break the line of Hiawatha!”

  Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
Seized the line of Hiawatha,
Swung with all his weight upon it,
Made a whirlpool in the water,
Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
Round and round in gurgling eddies,
Till the circles in the water
Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
Till the water-flags and rushes
Nodded on the distant margins.

  But when Hiawatha saw him
Slowly rising through the water,
Lifting up his disk refulgent,
Loud he shouted in derision,
“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
You are not the fish I wanted,
You are not the King of Fishes!”

  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
Heard his challenge of defiance,
The unnecessary tumult,
Ringing far across the water.

  From the white sand of the bottom
Up he rose with angry gesture,
Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
Clashing all his plates of armor,
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
In his wrath he darted upward,
Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
Both canoe and Hiawatha.

  Down into that darksome cavern
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
As a log on some black river,
Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
Found himself in utter darkness,
Groped about in helpless wonder,
Till he felt a great heart beating,
Throbbing in that utter darkness.

  And he smote it in his anger,
With his fist, the heart of Nahma,
Felt the mighty King of Fishes
Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
Heard the water gurgle round him
As he leaped and staggered through it,
Sick at heart, and faint and weary.

  Crosswise then did Hiawatha
Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
In the turmoil and confusion,
Forth he might be hurled and perish.
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Frisked and chattered very gayly,
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
Till the labor was completed.

  Then said Hiawatha to him,
“O my little friend, the squirrel,
Bravely have you toiled to help me;
Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
And the name which now he gives you;
For hereafter and forever
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!”

  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
Gasped and quivered in the water,
Then was still, and drifted landward
Till he grated on the pebbles,
Till the listening Hiawatha
Heard him grate upon the margin,
Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
Lay there dead upon the margin.

  Then he heard a clang and flapping,
As of many wings assembling,
Heard a screaming and confusion,
As of birds of prey contending,
Saw a gleam of light above him,
Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
Gazing at him through the opening,
Heard them saying to each other,
“’Tis our brother, Hiawatha!”

  And he shouted from below them,
Cried exulting from the caverns:
“O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
Make the rifts a little larger,
With your claws the openings widen,
Set me free from this dark prison,
And henceforward and forever
Men shall speak of your achievements,
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!”

  And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
Toiled with beak and claws together,
Made the rifts and openings wider
In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
And from peril and from prison,
From the body of the sturgeon,
From the peril of the water,
They released my Hiawatha.

  He was standing near his wigwam,
On the margin of the water,
And he called to old Nokomis,
Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
With the sea-gulls feeding on him.

  “I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
Slain the King of Fishes!” said he;
“Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
Drive them not away, Nokomis,
They have saved me from great peril
In the body of the sturgeon,
Wait until their meal is ended,
Till their craws are full with feasting,
Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
To their nests among the marshes;
Then bring all your pots and kettles,
And make oil for us in Winter.”

  And she waited till the sun set,
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
Rose above the tranquil water,
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
From their banquet rose with clamor,
And across the fiery sunset
Winged their way to far-off islands,
To their nests among the rushes.

  To his sleep went Hiawatha,
And Nokomis to her labor,
Toiling patient in the moonlight,
Till the sun and moon changed places,
Till the sky was red with sunrise,
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
Came back from the reedy islands,
Clamorous for their morning banquet.

  Three whole days and nights alternate
Old Nokomis and the seagulls
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
And upon the sands lay nothing
But the skeleton of Nahma.

Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers that round them blow
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of Music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Thro’ verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign;
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

Oh! Sov’reign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
Has curbed the fury of his car,
And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Tempered to thy warbled lay.
O’er Idalia’s velvet-green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea’s day,
With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
Where’er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime that float upon the air
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising ***** move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man’s feeble race what ills await!
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv’n in vain the heav’nly Muse?
Night and all her sickly dews,
Her sceptres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky;
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glitt’ring shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom
To cheer the shivering Native’s dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od’rous shade
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and gen’rous Shame,
Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame.

Woods, that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,
Isles, that crown th’ Ægean deep,
Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander’s amber waves
In lingering lab’rinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Ev’ry shade and hallowed fountain
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, Oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature’s Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless child
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
“This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.”

Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of th’ Abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold where Dryden’s less presumptuous car
Wide o’er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! ’tis heard no more—
Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? Though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray,
With orient hues, unborrowed of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a ****** fate,
Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swiftewd greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo',

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nurs'd with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confin'd,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance ev'ry night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd,
On pippins' russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,
Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he lov'd to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his **** around.

His frisking wa at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching show'rs,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And ev'ry night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade
He finds his long, last home,
And waits inn snug concealment laid,
'Till gentler **** shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

so... it's no longer enough that
i learn your language,
into a p.s. of conversational
etiquette -
addressing the confrontational
assertion of the existence
of orthography,
minding your, Germanic,
metaphysical *******...
and then...
   i'm, supposed, to,
listen to your average citizen,
dictating rules,
like some sort of king?!
i'll drink a beer, walking
past the east ham central mosque...
and i'll be like:
getting the **** eyes ******
you stare -
in reply: you know what?
do it... **** it... do it...
make me a ******* martyr...
     but i'm going to drink this beer,
feeding a solidarity of the 7/7 commuters...
hence my teasing...
       once i'll burn scissors and
craft a tattoo on my arm...
once i'll put out a cigarette
on my left hand's knuckle...
   the everyday englishman who "thinks"
he's king...
      i'm thinking... plum hues
to replace mascara... with a *******
fist...
             no... private property,
is private property...
   now i'm gagging for a fist
frisking! i'm less trigger happy,
and more, european,
i.e. knuckles itchy!
    i want to juggernaut something
down...
  and then start biting into it!
any obnoxious englighman,
being a **** will satiated my
palette.
         GNASH GNASH GNASH...
i want... a chance...
to scoop clean...
   the "riddle" of meaty chicken
schnacks of drum-sticks...
  fiddle fiddle, fiddle me something...
i want to engage in a 1, 2,
punch & bite something...
attempting to relieve itself
from physical confrontation,
having exhausted its verbal allowance.

Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.

A figment of imagination
crawling through
night
day
and evening.

Frisking through meadows
of stiff hands
and painted numbers,
this concept so lightly known as time,
has lived to contrive the clockwork
behind the functioning world.

It doesn't stand still; for it plans
escapes as swiftly as radio-waves.

Melting clocks tick away
at the hourglass of our fate.

Grain by grain...
time escapes the void we call life
and deceases us through the midst of anamnesis
and ideation.

It is all in our minds.

Dearest oh nathaniel,

what's that i hear?

when dusk cloaks the infinite shade of dark blue

spilling out of your wavering frown

a cuss word?

no it's

a whimper, a merciful

cry for help.



it starts out small,

not like baby steps - in fact, far from it

it's gargantuan like that giant from that fairy tale

that you yearn to reside in

and it crescendos into a melancholy howl

just like the werewolves in

little red riding hood.



under the shadows of your abode

inside the head full of numbers

all red ink ;  no pity

leering and lashing like corrected mistakes

from those animals

who solely came for the bread.



let me extricate you

no sweetie i won't fold you

to fit into a rabbit hole

you're not alice most definitely

you are already a minuscule caricature

the ones i doodle on my foolscap pad during maths

with bigger objectives and a yellow brick road

full of life

much animated than the

musical numbers

i sing in your ear

when you're

dozing off in chemistry

your crooked nose peeking out from underneath your folded arms

twitching at the notes strung together with lines of amusement and pure merriment

dearest oh nathaniel, you don't resemble Pinnochio.



instead i'll urge you to wear that glass slipper

slip it on quick and

leave a vestige

of gingerbread crumbs

that is

ineradicable and incontestable

like your heart

pure and gold

not from all those lessons in church

but from those involuntary explorations

into the never-ending sky.



and your tirades about

this school and society

that kaleidoscope in your eyes

unravelling like Rapunzel's locks

to form that opinionated you

they're part of

our counter attacks

on the Indian Ocean

all ephemeral

no aftertaste

of distaste

for it's peppered with

jest and zest.



our midnight discussions about feminism

and the women who fought in wars

they extol you from heaven

for your open-minded sentiment

they might say to me

in a hushed, demure tone

that he's like the pea

the princess eventually

found

concealed amongst

perpetuated mattresses.



the ugly duckling

did spin into ethereal

as time is of the essence

so don't compare yourself against

your friends

gymming isn't even a word

sprawled upon

online dictionaries

dearest oh nathaniel, i don't have to thumb through the dictionaries

to know that you're oh-so wrong.



desist from the self-inflicted loathe

it doesn't pain me

for i'll still love

you

unconditionally

but for the sake of your sanity

halt all the macabre,

grim, gore

and

ghoul.



dearest oh nathaniel,

your smile is a

sworn clandestine

evoking a swoon

and a creak from my

rusty knees

a poignant mess

enmeshed into

a human manifestation

of super novas

amalgamated together

hypnotizing me into

deep slumber

without the ***** of a

sewing needle.



let me sweep all those

poor lies

and false hopes

unlike Aladdin's

under a magic carpet

and try to lift the corners

of your mouth skyward

however i'm no

puppeteer and i don't see

no strings attached

so my endeavours

may be futile

but your laugh

jesus christ

it resonates on a tenfold

with the metal songs

buzzing out of your earpieces

that resonate deeply

with that

"cold heart"

that you claim

to be

yours

and i hold on to

it like dear life,

dearest oh nathaniel.



dearest oh nathaniel,

for you shall see

that

decampment isn't

the easy way out

because the

emblem of

you

will be scattered

around the

asphalt

frisking and skittish.



like what i've

said

i won't fold you to fit into

my pocket

neither will i

drop you into

the sea

i am that lighthouse

stationary

though

luminous in

the falling mist

and

rising fog.



dearest oh nathaniel,

what is that i hear?

no it's certainly

not a merciful

cry for help.



it's not a

battle cry

or a

symphony

dearest oh nathaniel, don't be a fool.



it's you

unabridged

in sheer

rapture.



dearest oh nathaniel,

i'm talking to you.

**| dearest oh nathaniel - m.m |

I getting for the world, ready of the droll
The time-traveling honors never flowed

The feet on your flannel and the drink's in a smiling cup
Of seminal poetry, and the frisky stations that keep your cuckoo rockin'

In my present state of mind in the frame of the dogma
The dogs of the militants and edicts of the enemy
Listing your killings like the million operations
Like a speck of dust in the billions

The thousands waste and die and roll in the deep
Making my feet crawl in underwood for the dance
In the floor of the stop and the eighteen run-outs
And drive-ins could n't the flops and shows that sheet curled

Of the bar that was dry, saying this will be the day that I bite
Look if this ***** won't feel
Like the records on the old store shelf, reading these books is like music

The feelings so unusual, and the years are so beautiful
Will you get older with the seams on your face which smile when
Being at the broken edges seems right, I just about cut enough about

How cute you look when you are mine, in this plasticine face
Pinch of dust and light as leaves and the weather
Light as a feather, the discord, and the beat goes on
On a dethrones, the kings of their station of kings so cross

Turning around a creamy ******, coming *******
With a hot fever and this unusual day will be when I die
Living beyond my dignity, and the price and the rights I print
According to my name, to fund it in vain and funnel it out
Of luck and stunted growth and the shortness has got me in the breath

I came to Summer's Orphanage after a spat.
Fair weather was upon Us. but -
We conjured ill Will,
even as we kissed.
so ponder that.

my tonic had backfired. and that was that.
we crushed all the lilies there, where -
we we're entangled in
suspect Glee.

if it came too that.

but the arguments were embraced
and all the butterflies were slain
for frisking the pockets
of our brief
Faith.

and the Sun came up, regardless.

Unbelievability.
I am nudged to shift
the centre of gravity.

The flames are touching
both of us. A civilized frisking
to unmask the secret.

I look at the dark
sky to plant the stars.
Unreached and unreachable
were you― in the carnival.

A creepy night nods.
I must wait for your zodiac
to blink and release the
incense of dew drops.

There was no destination.
I am a surfer, will not skirt
a thunderbolt.

Blood stains will appear later.

On the rooftop,
60 flights removed
From my ni##uh woes
Searching the streets below...

I am free to exhale
And savor the salt,
Freeze and possibilities
Of the evening breeze

Or jump...

Without prejudice
Or trepidation,
I breathe...

And dream a scene surreal
On the canvas of my immigrant mind
Where hope is an eagle
That ever flies

She soars o'er profiles of pain
Unfazed by chains of color
And crass

She is my die cast
On destiny's carousel
And I shall ever be
A dreamer...

A life worth saving...

On the rooftop
60 flights removed
From my ni##uh woes
Frisking the streets below....

~ P
(#NigguhWoes)
12/26/2014

Every evening
When the sun starts kissing the ocean
Yellow and orange frisking upon the water
My chest sinks in submission
Anticipating the emerging
Of the twilight Kraken


A good friend of old
You clasp your far reaching limbs
Around my heart
Injecting your black ink
deep into my soul

Every arm has a story to tell
A memory of failure and pain
A dying fantasy of happiness
An image of loneliness
A desperate cry for meaning

I can still see the shape of the sun
A slowly flattening ball in the background
The dimming light a perfect scenery
For a vicious attack

Trapped inside a big dark knot
Defiance is futile
Childhood memories of hopelessness
And joy
The only way of breaking free is letting go
Sinking into the deep

Your voice feeling,
Barriers dissipate.
Frisking into each others thoughts,
It felt like you're beside me.

An aria to my ears.
Clicks flowing through my veins,
Seeping in the fissures of my brain.
Your words resonates within my soul.

I'm sure you've observed it, that thing that they say:
Experience tends to just get in the way.
If I'm in the mood for philosophy talks
I don't go to scholars from Stanford or Ox;
I'll turn right around and go down to the docks
and get some philosophy out of the box.
I don't fool around with those **** engineers;
their time was just wasted to study for years.
I just grabbed a fellow out drinking some beers,
said I needed a rig that is spacious, and yet
can climb like a Willys and turn like a Vette.
He said he'd deliver December the third;
if there was a problem I'm sure I'd have heard.
And if I was feeling some pain pretty keen
from down by my liver or maybe my spleen
I'd talk to a fellow I met at the zoo,
say just cut in here, take a minute or two;
if you see a bad liver you'll know what to do,
and soon I'd be frisking around like a goat
and coming November, you know how I'll vote.

The attempt to take Patmia was unleashed at once, being protected by Macedonian ghosts including Alexander the Great who came with the melted Xiphos, and who were materializing before the confrontation with the enemies with spirited herons that tried to simulate a greater number of charioteers and steeds than they outnumbered any beast that tried to dominate them with unbridled Cyclops heads. The living half-dead were severed lying with ailments in the newest ranks that epitomized the syntagma of the Macedonian phalanx that was fired by the adjacent slopes in the grooves of the groves near the current Atros monastery, from a high altitude the Achaemenid troops were violated, with their tassels and strawberry trees that made consonance in the labaros, by countersunk washers resurfacing impregnable, and leaving the zephyr of the Thuellai revolted in Marian dispositions that were already beginning to lecture the Persians, with mosaics that resembled iridescence and cramps of expiration, leaving great gestures in the current Roman villa with its archaeological remains, which they would always judge by being willing in the impulses of good and evil, with Apollo who was instituted in a megaron and who would rally all who were forever to follow him and never return, by the stranger keras or side of this improvised framework, where Wonthelimar appeared that e He was in the train of the repertoire of the stalactites of the Chaliotata caves, also splendid in the cave of Drogarati with magnificent glories that allowed them to get lost among the cliff, and attack the Persians from the rear, until now Wonthelimar great expert of the Speleothemes he came from the cave of Melissani in Kefalonia, having them harassed.

The Macedonian Phalanx was commanded by Vernarth and Alexander the Great, bearing in mind the unmistakable strategies of Philip, to win back praise for this decisive Hallenic feat by preempting an eloquent interference by Iblís god, and with his offspring of difference and honor in the Greek possessions with spearmen, pikas and cavalry charges that Alexander the Great would command. The Koilé Aspis was blessed by the Herophilla Sybilla who retrogradely brought the same scattering referring to the Trojan precognition, ordering all the Hoplites to reinforce the cheek pieces with the upper point Koilé Aspis, rolling up the iron plate of the helmet that hung from the left arm. as the sinister that made a plethora of the Zohar and its Kabbalah. The line of the Psiloi anointed the torsion hinges of the keras on the starboards of both light cavalries, one commanded by Kanti and that of Aftó, Alikantus leading Vernarth from the Dyticá. The Hypaspists went in the direction of irruption with all the gravity of the ***** with the heavy cavalry, taking refuge from the heavy Phalanx, next to the right-handed Taxiarchy that sheltered the machines of the enemy troops together with the allied infantry. Towards the side of the sinister, the Syntagma curved with the troops of Thessaly attached to the palfrey of light infantry. From all ends, the Sarissas praised each other in the upright angle that made fearful growth or start-ups even whoever raged them with guttural attributions on the slopes not far from Mount Atros. After the fiftieth of Laodicea, the ranks dropped apexes that exceeded by more than four meters above the shoulder of the arrow brotherhoods that would allow them to deal with their short swords, surpassing the stagnation of the Theban hoplitic phalanxes, thus creating again the embarrassment of the Persians that pale they gave themselves to the pikemen when they were surrounded further from the fifth row of the essence of Vernarth with more than 256 warriors in the Syntagma of Income. This time the science of linking with the Duoverse and the Codex Raedus would extend the myriad of 64 Patmian Syntagmas, which were exacerbated by the syntagamatarchos, being ruled in the soldiers of this row until frisking the pairs of the last soldier called Enomotarchos. Here Vernarth with his horse Kanti reinforces them through the even and odd ranks in the containment of the 32 soldiers, towards the commanders of the eighth peat from the right of a Lochagos. The formation of the two Keras of transition would finally constitute the 32 syntagmas until bringing together the 8192 mesnadas that were rising from the silica with the trumpets to enter the Phalanx with the only war machine in this edition granted by the accentuated voice of their steps, together to the gadgets of their weapons, and Faith that resembled them in the Phrygian morrions for the distribution of a tactic that would not be winning by spilled blood, but by the immovable stamp of the gangs united in their tactical approach, always leaving them in sight of the leonatus that Vernath and Alexander of Macedonia wore, and that no head would contain the smoke of truth where they were secured with a hint of horror, only two minimalisms of light would contain them from the rigor of blindness of the Geburah, later iterating the oblique line that would be a predilection of the cavalry and the subsequent forcefulness of the capital sentence, without attempting any overturning or abrupt windlass d e the sides, so as not to tear the quadrangular gradients of their spectra that used to be prematurely out of square. They strengthened the clubs that split over the four meters of Aurion, to nail them the devil that came from the sky to begin darkness that left the phalanxes uncovered. Unraveling the vines of the demon that tried to entangle them by the superior sight of their leaders, turning with their Koilé Aspis and giving them quick intrigues of protection in motion, essentially pivoting the consecrated Hammer and the Stiletto Anvil that it spurred taking them to the shortcuts with its weak arms to at the expense of the Hetairoi, making them the corollary of dominance and apprehending them against the Pezhetairoi without being able to stop losing the substance of epidermis that could continue or renew due to instances of radial photophobia that cornered them from north to south, taking them dozing where many would-be shaken by Rains of odd starts that will corner them above the flashes that will be reflected from the germinative bases of the Atros monastery, imprisoning them by the sabers in the curves of the Machaira. The wounds will cause a great spiritual wasting creating watches in the remnants of the Syntagmas of some chariots that were wrapped between the last rows, without any prostration that he quickly left and no edge that cut into any collapse of conviction.                      

The Achaemenides were surrounded in the ellipsis of the silica and the future Atros monastery, towards the systematic doctrinal obedience through the resignation of the Seculorum, until then that abhorred Palestine, hearing from afar a strident cacophony that was dramatic convincing, with embalmed edicts of some chronicles, which began to speak in multilateral parapsychologies, which were fading to the edge of the Caucasus, where the fawns diminished their preservation muscles with the giant warriors who tried to capture with their fatigued human eyes.

Saint John Says: “I hold the masters' staff in my hand, they inhibit their apprehensions by squeezing the same tree with their hands, and then making them more flexible when the fawn carries a distance that is difficult for a human to try, even though it is the best hunter towards the flank. right where the last phalanxes turned the heads of the donkey, to avoid attracting the fawn and remain recluse in the siege lances, letting the fawn pairs of the herd carry it "

In this way, it was glimpsed how the Persians' megalomania and weaknesses were castrated in their glorious crowns and heads, which moved them uniting them in the veil of the divinity of Israel where what was founded will be refounded, where the promises will speak for the righteous who stumble. by allegories remained on the battlefield, and not by the stocks or their limbs lacerated by the same adversaries who testify to a greater Apocalypse, who strides and testifies to Asmodeus in what is not confessed, emerging from the imageology in two impossible altars of living together, if one is not there or is distancing oneself by making them believe in the unfolding of half bad compromise, and of flagrant before Samael's henbane.

Now the need to rediscover himself rises over him, he leaves the Machiavellian stupor and the breath of his organism flavored with bile, alchemy, and pours it out until he expels his cancer-causing avital situation. Everything was already clear, Ludwig had a great refuge of himself, he was the superman who locks up all ages, who is senile and youthful; since it is surrounded by the aura of the perceptual smell of evil. That he renews knowledge and does not feel invariable, that he is a Cybernetic and divine Monarch. In contrast, the other is a mastiff that allows himself to docilize his instinct and follow the one who beats him, the one who mistreats him and shatters his will that accompanies the master who makes use of him, who uses him today, still and always. Now almost in his normal state, he decides to smell better and change his appearance, he coughs up his lobes by filling them with broth from Colibrí's twittering. He combs his damp hair and talks to himself by saying words like ...: Hello, how are you ... Who will you be today ...? Although his spirit is reluctant, he goes to the birthday of his friend Sara, a close friend of his, and lends to his benevolence. When he arrives, he repeats the protocol and cheers up his appearance, greets the ladies present, and hand in hand with the gentlemen, in Ludwig's intimacy an anti-desire pierces, the anguish of a weak pleasure that his expiring sap disturbs in the worldliness of him.

Distracted, he continues, walks with her eyes, and stops them in a brown hair, with radiant light he receives the sensual gesture, and the damsel takes her hair with her hand, pulling it towards her back. Ludwig, astonished and puzzled by her, made her look ******, he already imagined receiving from her a smile her, but knowing that he loved her, that her hair would let go of her and engender in him the impression of her as possessing the sculpture of her. He approaches her with a firm temper a little more, glancing at her casually. She, very contemplative, manages to find the vigor of her strength by getting close enough, he very thoughtful, pending her every step it would be easy for him to glimpse the future, to find his equivalence to his unpredictable existence, who for the moment would desire glory and majesty and not fugitive decadence, like something suicidal that instead of satisfying him, kills him.

When he was preparing to meet her, he did not hesitate and the last steps to her were the most solid, wherever he was with his idea of having her, he hung in his stomach the sharp desire to put out his eyes with a fork and thus proceed at a slow pace in his masochism in frisking his agonizing death. There came the other gesture where he would drop his arm and brush it with hers, with a stealthy touch he could see a certain excitement between his teeth, and the saliva was escaping from his mouth when he looked at himself in a mirror, also seeing how it trickled down his makeup chin impatience. He never believed that such a phenomenon would happen to him, so it was where Sara, who was tasting a delicious menu, was going to tell him that she was leaving her and that later he would call her. As he left and went through the front garden, he felt the birthday song being sung to the piano and at the same time he saw someone outside with an immutable expression --- And Ludwig told himself that the strange-looking one was an Augur del Budú, that It weighed on her stoic peace of being normal, which was just her high-profile imagination. Then he walks through the Prehistoric Park, crosses a low-level tunnel that endangers his balance when he barely sees his hands, but he manages to advance without paralyzing his limbs and reaches the main street where he sees a dog run over, takes it, and says to himself. ..: "I will take it to the food chain of my Green City, where the pure bacteria will gnaw its tissues ..." With great strength and noble spirit, he entered his Floral Forest, where he points the Cypress to the Sea, thus releasing it and sheltering it with his Deist energy, which is more than medullary and unbeatable. He withdraws and cannot help turning and looking at him, as if said Energy wanted him to resurrect the dog. Believing in his conscience, he asks permission to rest, he lies lightly on the humus; where photosynthesized leaves inoculate the percentage dreams of vegetables, trees and flowers. What the archer in his bolt threw, his chest oppressed unbreathable pneumonia, driving him to sleep for twenty-four hours. When he wakes up, still lying on his humus bed, he wants to lighten his heavy load by eating well, and drinking himself into alcohol. He did not know how to proceed, whether to beg or rob the wealthy of his leftovers, or humble himself with God and disavow him from throwing misfortunes, carelessness, cataclysms, the self-criticism of being imperfect, and whether he has to bleed or He has to defecate, provoke personal disgust, and may this lead him to lust, baseness, sin.

The more he brooded, the more weightless he became, and the murderous scavengers lurked around his will. Like a narcotic effect, it loses its cognitive capacity and reverses itself swirling through the funnel of reverie, where the sub-world circulates and where repressions, oppositions, and powerlessness collide. At the initial place where he hallucinates and sees himself entirely, he leaves the vigil and goes into the subconscious ...: He sees Debra in her moderated state where she was leaving that space --- Ludwig looks at her and so does she, but nothing is said to each other, only he says to himself "I prefer to love her to my distant ideal and not body versus body, just as the thought of her makes of her a kind, sweet and current portrait ..."

When he begins to walk renewed, he sees several Debra in reproductive phases, they worked ardently in his subconsciousness. Some kissed him, others beat him, others confused him and others hurt him. In favor of his life and for his salvation, the virtuous side would mercifully go to dismay him and open the floodgate of reality, to desolder his eyelids and flowing air go with its dreamlike substances. Already fully awake, he sees through the window of the branches how the clouds moved and how everything moved, the bushes with their branches and their flowers. When seeing with alienated simplicity and electrifying the sky, the radiant light beams touch the vibrant colors, which touch his heart like a disquieting shout, although at the most acute in his decay it will be like the noise that broke his eardrum, or like the chard that her stomach upset. He gets up and straightens up, by the time he's standing, he takes a paper and writes ...: "How relieved I am to dabble in sleep ..., now that I make the inscription tangible ..."

When he left his home, he was accompanied by a splendid sun, the birds fluttered with indescribable happiness, the prevailing clarity and cleanliness of the environment was already perceived, seeing that everything was hubbub, he continued to be a victim of his endogenous suffering. But the children's laugh made him laugh, dissipating his sorrow. Passing through the Prehistory Park, where he always believed that trees were Dinosaurs; he remembered the jerks of his father when he took him to school. He concludes that there is no place on earth that is not ancient, and here in this park you can smell the sacrifice of the primitive to survive. In the same way, the Mammoth in instincts was the same as **** Sapiens, only that it took its spear against the animal because it evolved faster, without knowing why ...?, Perhaps to see this inhabitant moistened in the Jordan, very close to Jesus Christ. The world revolves around the man in need, who invents what is necessary, in this case fighting his hunger. In this way he kills the Mammoth, cutting it into pieces to then eat it, and whoever takes the food from it, simply dies in the struggle to survive before his ambitions.

When he got out of his mind, he set out on the path to follow, and when he crossed the Fountain of Geysers and Hot Springs; he saw at the top of the Waters of Delphi, that woman with chestnut hair; Sara's birthday. She was alone and with her eyes without detaching them from the vapor, from the liquid element, so excited Ludwig approaches her almost calm, with a racing heart that he could hide when talking to her --- Well he said to himself ..., now I'll talk to you ... - Excuse me, You. I saw you on Sara's birthday, I saw you surrounded by many people. Look, I would allow myself to be by your side, I promise not to get in the way --- Thus, the soliloquy continued, with great shock I watched her and seeing how delighted she was, I could even kiss her, achieving it with ease, because it was daytime, perhaps where it was. found in the nomenclature matter.

After a while, when she was thinking of quickly moving away from the place, from the Source that inspired her enchantment, she spoke to him and said ...: “We women are not very fixed when the man casts his insatiable gaze, but we do the vanity of feeling admired. That's why I remember you at that party, I even got really worried when the saliva ran down your chin, I thought you were going to faint. As you can see, if I remember you.--- He did not take long to ask her name, and he told her that her name was Antonieta. Ludwig thought how beautiful her name was --- she has the name I like the most, and she illuminated with adulation cleared her eyes making them greener and more feminine in her manners. He knew that he would be calmer if he met her again, asking her to be so. She affirmed his request, but it would be in a few more weeks; because she had to fulfill a contract with the Ballet Company. Since she was an actress and a dancer, this was going to take place in the city of San Lorenzo. Thus it is that the ballad mishap was fulfilled, in the thick of the Park, one and the other had the magic of enchantment; her with her eyes of her green sea of the rocky shore, of the green algae and the salty green fish with the immeasurable shine in her eyes eager to dance and interpret the steam dance of that deep-rooted Thermal Spring.

Even when she wanted to start saying goodbye to her, he was imbued with her beauty, like the wind of pure air that lifts her hair with pacifism and open disposition, with the peace of a face that looks at the ****** world and at first instance positive and very beautiful. Well, Antoinette said ... I have to go. I would have liked to be here more, but I have to continue rehearsing the Work. She telling Ludwig ...: I want to let you know that we are slaves to fulfillment and we all seek to communicate, that's why like you I will also go. Together they left without saying anything and when they reached the exit they said goodbye with an injective kiss of love, with sweetness and psychology. The latter, she leaves the place until lost in the hazy gray of the day. When Ludwig wanted to talk to himself about what had happened, the preliminary virus entered her brain, so that he could not remember her clothes, only her hair from the Thermal Abbey with her spells that he introduced stiff and sharp the benefit by clouding his unreason produced by the virus of unreason. He believed he was Troilo and she Créssida, raising his suggestive and despotic view of her, whose order tells him to walk away ... Perhaps where ...? Maybe to drag the golden threads of her dress destined for her debut. By introducing his instinct to a simple will, he remembers Sara and puts forces in her footsteps to shorten her arrival. As he passed through the jasmine trees, he approached his house in a tiny way, up to the Eucalyptus massif that always welcomed him, expelling the unmistakable and pleasant aroma of his house. Before it struck, Sara said ... come in, and he came in but didn't see her, and he started looking for her around the dining room and the living room, until she came out of somewhere fast and well dressed with the scent of a great woman, with the better scents that surrounded her satin dress with attraction and grace. She tells him that she is going to the Aula Magna to see a group of Medieval Music. He tells her that if he left so after her, arguing that he came to see her and tell her how beautiful he found her friendship with her and how good it feels to be I live here, She tells him not to worry when she smiles at him, and he agreed to her words telling him how happy he was after the sun that rose magnifying everything, even she felt willing to improvise their good moods.

He answers her by making her words difficult as if intensifying her anemic and soft ductility in her breathless lungs. She rebukes him by saying that her illness should be treated more regularly. And he answered her only by shaking her head moderately, telling her that when he was not with someone like her, he believed he felt that the weight of the calculations of the geophysical world and the floating voices did not leave her hope in the peace in peace. her brain. Sara takes Ludwig's hands, giving him her comfort. My poor friend Ludwig, Alma Matter, you have now awakened the affection that I have never felt before for someone I hold dear and feel good today. She gets up and serves him a Vermouth, to go to the exhibition. In the fourth sip he wanted to fall into the hands of a certain audacity, he could not avoid falling into the ******* of the vision of paintings and sculptures, he wanted to stop and go to the garden to philosophize, perhaps with a butterfly such as the peaceful and healthy essence, full of transparency and stillness. She in this way she stretched her nose towards the ****** leaves, filling them with pure color, with pure airy candor. Sara, looking at him through the glass door, understood his state and wanted to caress his head and face. She immediately called him Ludwig ... come on, it's about time ...! He waited for him to close the door, before cutting off his overexcitement, until Sara quickly arrived and they went to the car. Upon arriving at the Aula Magna, both were in an excellent state of predisposition. They went in and up, sitting in the box. They instantly cheered up and Ludwig, shocked, was getting ready to tell him of his well-being, but the lights just faded to initiate the presentation. They begin by instrumentalizing the works of the 15th century in Spain and France, to later continue with choral music from the  Gregorian´s chants  Solesmes.

In the intermission, they commented on the lightness of the performers with their instruments and the fiery auditors acclaiming the variations and colors of the voices. His gestures also said how perplexed some attendees were by the perfection of his mastery. As they continue, pairs are introduced performing music for Bach's Harpsichord, and ending with pieces by Vivaldi, El pastor Fido and others by Telemann for Guitar. In the final moment, Ludwig remembered his youth and among them the metallic sound of the instruments that his father carried to compose in his house, assimilating the inexhaustible sounds of those volumes in his sensations. And so the aerial images escaped beyond music and love, from that inexhaustible resistance of his body, from his doubtful states which destroyed the apogee of his evolution. Those great awakenings of little serenity like the great clamor of union that he saw in his parents that later he did not seem like that, but belligerent on all sides, and how hatred broke out and disordered in his person increasing in swearing mouths altered in not measuring his words. Very close together on the step, they said goodbye to the Auditorium, and with a melodic sound, Sara appears singing, Ludwig not understanding that mixture that she sang in her French hymn. He seemed very bohemian and spoke of the pioneers of the Juggler Song. With telepathy he carried the fulfillment of his wish for a magical state, which had no input or output, only it corresponded to extracting an abstract thought from what was divinely related to music. Outside of Ludwig, Sara sang with satisfaction the appropriate atmosphere appropriate to her, but not so with his who was about to spill an ocean of liquids from eyes and ears, in which would come the remnants of quiet time, of the conflict of the others, maybe Debra with a handicapped part endocrinately composed with the flow of mineral and organic acids. In order to open the necessary contact of a soon to relieve, to suspend the claustrophobic tormenting existing, derived from the seizing and painful gesture of her unbearable wanting to heal and not getting it.

Ludwig said intimately ...: Uz ..., Uzzz ..., What a burning sensation I feel, it will pass ...! When the fatigue was overcome, the derutinization begins, to receive the delight, the music of the plumber ingredient of early life. That if it is spontaneous, it is capable of generating great proportions of delight and externalizing the result of the bodies in agitation that still emanated from its rhythmic musical cortex. They said goodbye to the Aula Magna "Bernardo Courtois", leaving a memorable satisfaction in his already enlarged spirit.

Your Hair is Like a Flock of Goats
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              Your Hair is Like a Flock of Goats

                              (Y)our hair is like a flock of goats
                              Frisking down the slopes of Gilead

                                           -Song of Songs, 4:5-6

Even in a farming community
That awkward compliment you’d better keep
So ask her this joke (if she grants you immunity):
Do goats have mohair than sheep?




(“Do goats have mohair than sheep?” is an old, old, old joke.)

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              Your Hair is Like a Flock of Goats

                              (Y)our hair is like a flock of goats
                              Frisking down the slopes of Gilead

                                           -Song of Songs, 4:5-6

Even in a farming community
That awkward compliment you’d better keep
So ask her this joke (if she grants you immunity):
Do goats have mohair than sheep?




(“Do goats have mohair than sheep?” is an old, old, old joke.)

PUPPY OF MINE

Happy very I would be, if I had you, in real, little one.

Loving caring you are, just like a daughter or  son

To have you frisking, jumping would be sheer fun

Unconditional love from you is much more than a ton(or gold)

Your faithfulness n love cannot be compared with anyone .

Rich I wish to become,  because I want to possess a PUPPY, sweet one.

Armin Dutia Motashaw