This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria *****, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little **** of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think ‘t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the ****** maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and ****** pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ‘t is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had ****** aside the branches of her oak
To see the ***** gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy ***** with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of ****** heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased:  one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’Tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

Whence came his feet into my field, and why?
How is it that he sees it all so drear?
How do I see his seeing, and how hear
The name his bitter silence knows it by?
This was the little fold of separate sky
Whose pasturing clouds in the soul’s atmosphere
Drew living light from one continual year:
How should he find it lifeless? He, or I?

Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field,
With plaints for every flower, and for each tree
A moan, the sighing wind’s auxiliary:
And o’er sweet waters of my life, that yield
Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal’d,
Even in my place he weeps.  Even I, not he.

Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!

Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.

Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.

Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.

Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.

Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******.

It seems to be;
I walk, where your legs tire
I sing, where you forget your melody
It seems to be;
I have lived for you, when death was pasturing your heart
I have built for you, a world full of nothing but art
It seems to be;
I have not been there for myself, all this while.

Kafersuseh
One-Dimensional Beams


More than two thousand years ago, there was a mischievous infant who gazed and gazed at the beams curiously at birth in Bethlehem… especially ones that crossed! This happened in the polarity of the magnetic stable of Bethelem, in a portal on adjoining hills that welcomed him overflowing. This glorious empowered looked at the beams that wore some ingenious crosses, seeing him right there, being still an unborn, he knew that when he was born he would already leave this unborn universe. Higher up the trusses that riveted the framework, he approached with his lonely gaze higher up the roof, being able to see beings of light organizing a Eucharist on the roof of his stable two thousand years ago, which could be more than an edict …, Which would inaugurate the sagacity of caring for and giving newborns what many wanted to see, but few knew who he really was, even though there was no record of him or his lineage lost amidst the hay strips.

Says the Messiah: “A few minutes ago, or more than two thousand years ago…? I counted the times that Rees’s tail moved, and I realized that I already had select visions in Kafersuseh, above the roof of the rafters ..., on the roof, some outcasts also visit me reborn and loving. It has even been detected that someone was coming from far away, but arrived late, I could just observe him to know how to unite him with my pariah criteria. He was ordering the altar, taking orders from an unsustainable upward scaffold of noble wood, saying so; "That all are in alliances and aligning themselves for those who did not fit in the stable." I was looking at the roof of the barn, but I saw beyond ..., being able to verify that my guards were there preparing the beams on the dowels that crossed among others, to climb to greater rooftops after brushing the rough coatings of their flagellated texture like whips from the underworld of Elpenor. That man remained, and not when he lost his sight with mine as a child-man, since only he distinguished me, but not the beings of light. The discanted Eucharist was consecrated, I never rested in looking while resting in an always, because I saw that my eyes became adorned lights in the lasting oscillation of their shofar or bull's eye songs. During this time a nascent angel appeared, trying to get in and out, but belatedly decided to join the group of shepherds who were pasturing their sheep in the fields near Bethlehem; and he told them that he brought good news because the Messiah, the savior of the world, had been born. The shepherds left everything to go in search of the newborn since the angel told them that they would find me sleeping or in sleep ..., but I was not there, I remained on the manger, since I was up in the time of three sounds of bells, almost further than near those who announced my arrival. After three sounds of bells, three shepherds of light came down from the rooftop, seeing in me that they recognized your lights, thus being the ones who blessed my journey in one day, from the Middle East, even on a rooftop next to paradise, which I officiated myself in the splendor and perfection of the world as a child-man, not far from the wizard outcasts, who parodied all the songs, always followers of the Zoroaster and my Kafersuseh, up to Gethsemane and towards my mother.

The Messiah was still absorbed in looking at the sky, while he was busy sleeping his body. There is no doubt that his unfolding being made him move his first steps in first words, which alluded to a game of learning to take the first steps in Judean fashion on the stables. His hands, puzzled by his body, made stories of the dance of those who were close to him, only about fifty grouped there, in filigrees that ran as seconds within the constraints minutes without time, gathered in the Jewish dawn of Eretz-Israel.

Saint John the Apostle says: “God cares for the material world and for this creature of his who predetermines us. This is the incredible thing about the Father and the Son. Watch… I will walk through the darkness, not through light. Thus you will see the trait that not life will make me know which in its similarity, and who inherits his body and soul as in the hands of a bumblebee. I feel love over the hatred of others, I see light that could be impudence to those who rumbles in their tired and inattentive ears, perhaps this way they will see when they can see better without listening attentively to the sound of the bumblebee. I see the verses fly and how they fall one by one on my soul in order, obeying the herds early, like a herd ordering those that one after another look at each other later, ordering the perfect law of the beginning in a conciliated end "

At that moment, the fragrances of the dense flowers in water, transmitted the anxiety of those who wanted to continue listening, ecstatic and fragrant, but to get rid of their presumptions, they were falling into the abyss on the banks of the Malaki garden cliff, where many of them they coughed or cleared their throat in the luminance’s that attacked their feelings wrapped in judicious phlegm on their limestone stones.

Vernarth says: “You drink with me…, I have a new concoction, from the beginning to the end where the branches enter with their effect, from the same branches the true fire comes out towards you that savors the errors and slips. I have scabs, of much darkness, but the unfaithful passion that hates me, of such intensity, is ennobled by seeing me prostrate before the Messiah, who does not tire in a new change when seeing how the rounded limits shine on her face, nor. less to adapt to boundary squares, or to continue being born and continue to die, by drawing the curtain that her mother always shows her, devoted to self-denial, plunged into Gnosticism and from all those who tried to relate it "

We will not be able to ask ourselves many times who we are, facing and every time a child is born in the midst of the variations that make all mischief its beauty, because it is born from the closed heart, dancing in the greater acceptance of the blessed cycle of being born and being born. Even so, having never been among them, credibility systems tire of their limestone rock material…, they register and suggest all kinds of contemplations, in a vague naivety that glows between gold, myrrh, and incense. All those who were present, transcend by resenting their consciences, believing themselves spiritual while tenderness accompanied them, but not religious, but the leadership of a creation in this stable that we see just being born, which is higher up, was presented before their sight of yourselves being born in all that concludes in an epistle, under the dominance of "How you believe and love when not seeing, what we see in ourselves not believing"

Undefined before this stable, we pray about the mother when she arrives, and we will pray about her mother when she leaves ..., he is physical for those who admit him as a divine man and he is vainglorious to those who do not, who do not tire his limits, do not move the fence of its three-quarters demarcated, entering the non-demarcated spirit, as a mobile emotional, encircling a father and his image beyond because it escapes our reason and faith, but it is beyond or closer to what is usually a voluntary desire that it always remains, if it is the Messiah, everything accepts it in your mistakes of reprimanding after erasing the trial of your random Being reprimanded, what the error feeds in you, your active mind digests. Here we are extended, faced with the anti-faith and distended anti-will, underlying a new tradition that will need to re-live it and know it, if those of us who follow continue to speak of ethnic faith or the naturalness of multiple tasks of their intolerances.

Little Joshua says: “My fingers disobey me because they are far from my mother's. When I want to bring my visions closer to him, I throw myself at his gaze to ask him permission. But more than anything that takes us north, it flows faster than my shadow feeding on the light of the epistle. I sing and sing the wills that come from so far away, but I am distracted by looking and seeing those who organize an altar not so far from it…, up here on the roof. I feel without knowing and without knowing how behind them is my Father, and next to them in line the flag of the multitudes who sing to me of haughty brave and Lord for those who are not. I never tire of talking about the beams, they flex with the horses of the universe, and the dimensions that intercepted with my passion, in my tension that falls compressed and falls reluctantly at the moment of tired inertia. The prism makes me fasten with the portions of the stable arches, and this in the creaking of my doubts in the desert of Jericho. The torsion in its mechanics as a noble, unbearable beam does what my reflective pains endure, so as not to stress the beams of others. From Nazareth to Bethlehem, a great effort to sustain the tension and torsion of the mechanics of the altar, in the hands of those who fall weightless without feeling the weight that their burden is relieved on my back. In this slender mass and geometric beam wood, the daily calculations that my father does when he is tired to support the world and my back are deformed, and when he is on impulses beyond them ..., he deforms what torsion does on it and does on the other Meridian angles. And why I as his son do not interpret one-dimensionally...? whose axis and radius I never knew how to understand, making me wisely ignorant, taking me from their clothes tightly and from the mysteries that go beyond a constant creation in a stable "

The Semitic Aramaic language was presented in this Eucharist, on the Kafersuseh, of Joshua, he took his father in the stable with all those who came to see him, he looked at them beyond for thousands of years who will come to meet the humanity that he lay grazing, always addressing them in Aramaic parables. While below the kings gave him offerings from the East, above beyond the ****** beams, was King David consecrating him. Behind the King was the Father Creator supervising the thousands that his son Joshua would parley with Aramaic languages, when the thousands of future are consecrated alive in their astral bodies to the right of the Menorah, together beyond the archangels surrounding each one.

Joshua watched with attention as his Aramaic lingual field went farther from Bethhlemem, beyond Kafersuseh, where, and from the evanescent height, he was answered by a shed of the canopy of the beam, which leaned on the stars, populating its trapezoidal back for a provincial development in his non-verbal escape, losing his unborn language, entering Aramaic, through the divine membranes that descend through his olfactory halo language. However, he was already beginning to descend from the roof, to go to the base of the peasant Christians who adored him and praised him horizontally, lavishing him with water to distribute on their hands and faces, beyond their visions. Joshua looked at Joseph and felt that his Aramaic was already his, but he would go early walking towards the Garden of Olives ..., towards Gethsemane, to meet his frank three-dimensional language, towards his Creator father, surrounding them with Lepidoptera that broke the Chrysalis plaguing the taxa of Aramaic micro languages, to take them to their Father, who would wait for him in a further ceremonial on the flat slopes that converged with him, in a language that could one day be lost as a dead language. However, this Aramaic tongue will go in placebo on these pollinating Lepidoptera, they will go from the sacred regions to Gethsemane from their celestial visions to Kafersuseh.

In their homogeneity, as dialects began, the impetus of the Lepidoptera would be reborn; traveling in night groups, to Gethsemane, on the same day that Joshua came into the world in the Aramaic lights.  In the phylogeny (the one who loves his linguistic charisma) as in the relation of kinship between species or taxa in general. as a linguistics term that is also historical to refer to the classification of human languages according to their common origin, the term that will be used mainly in its biological sense, since it is this characteristic that makes it tireless to travel the same day that the Messiah comes to the world. build the walls to support his reign, with the walls that will protect his epistle in an apostolate world, to be built on a night of siren rumors, when Joshua was born and his Aramaic language traveled from the upper beam, above the roof of his stable, to arrive with his biological lepidopteron lingual species to pollinate Gethsemane, to migrate from that moment his word, knowing that his body would be lost before those who tire their eyes by not being able to decipher or read.

Thus transferring pollen from the stamens to the stigma of receptive of the flowers in the angiosperms that populated the golden olive orchards, mounted on the vectors of the aforementioned pollen they will be gone and navigated in more olive trees by the bees that would carry these strains from the Kafersuseh in Bethlehem, to preserve the language of Joshua moral. Although even the new labors of humanity, thus going astray as an unpreserved language, not even imaginable at the birth of a Messiah until the beginning of a Gethsemane in Body and a united Aramaic language, with an invisible Aramaic body to those who do not they will be able to see cheering the migratory flight of the Lepidoptera, interspersed with bumblebees, bees and wasps carrying gold, myrrh, and incense to Kafersuseh and to Gethsemane.

the heart lies in a
handkerchief as if it's an
issue with mind management,
or a wand could becalm
its ancient woes

i am not even his enantiomer,
and I can buffer him
pasturing me like a
chandelier tree
in wintertime ketosis

Sara Fielder © Apr 2018

melting cheese on the train tracks
or hunting for a kangaroo
perhaps dissimilar to also compare
a pumpernickel to a windmill

but let the cheese ooze when
i write a slogan machine

= is love in the algebra of pronoun
equations
while ≠ is hate

therefore i ≠ you
is unlike i = you...
at least that's how i get all fuzzy
because i finally reached the reality
of calling both sensations
a fuzz in the fuzzy brain
antics
i really want to scratch my brain
i want to thread it with
needle junctions
to where i am looking out across
the Pacific to find you
dearest plump plumb of an ***
dog in the mirror
dog in the mirror
ravaging from behind...

which sort of reminds me of the Q
above homosexuality
i understand **** eroticism
in literature
and how **** this ring finger
feels and looks
and i'm all weather-jovial in this Scandinavia
land of Denmark and England
and how glorious to see Europe
congregate in Germany
rather than Belgium in swim no swagger
Judas attire of suits
this congregation of a people
i could definitely feed off feeling on Kauai
let alone in my bedroom shack
in the Grim London to a Reaper: ask -
posit a question:
to ask for something or to ask for nothing

currently it's Turkey 1 and Gruzia 1:
that's Georgia
Gruz: i: a
              not ja?

йa
           as much as я

carnival central in my head with
NFOMO: no fear of missing out:
got the acronyms all wong in wok
i mean: acronyms are without
vowels

with exception to USA the grand central
#genesis of acronyms
but not from this Federalist
this post-Republican anti-Democrat
i believe in a coherency of the compactness
of individuals
now with this ring i'm freed from
the ******* of Satan the soloist
and in God's honest ****
i do to my wife
what i would never do to a *******
hail Mary Hail Mary

i paid for my infidelity a labor of
£130 for an hour massaging her
i needed touch
but i needed to give touch
and not receive it
that's how dishonest i can be
flamboyant rude boy ginger
yes i cheated: on my wife that's not my wife
just yet
i have a project ahead of me
four women
my mother
not my grandmother or my great grandmother
not my father's mother
who i have to image of
instead i have
Edie Reyla Lydia
instead i have
Edie Reyla Lydia...
Puerto Rico on the sun flaring up
with teenage angst
with **** firestarter
with my woman my exlusivity
so much good that did me
going to the brothel like that
i was thinking about a Thai massage
parlor but i thought the world
is tense and relaxed at the same time
people are congregating in Germany
in the political arena of football
because the Coliseum is
both Parliament and Church...
the inseparable dynamic of High Secularism...
the Coliseum is both
Parliament and Church...

       ROM EWIG!
HAGELZEIT!
        zeit heil! really? that's how you salute
in Sardaukar Mongolian
i'm pretty sure we've been through
this already: the dampening
are you ******* twice over staff sergeants
all protruding like that
like i'm your suckling octopus baby
wrap or what?! ha ha...

in the **** of god
this goodness of ***
now i see
now i don't want to leave
the singing blessings
i don't want to leave:
take your homosexual liberalism
and leave my CIS non-conformist
stance of: just about right
when it comes to the existential imprint
of lagging 18 years behind
the **** librarian me *******
my imaginary mother
this is not a tiger in a bed photograph
to liken mole to cougar
but once i had the opportunity
of holding a rabbit in my hands:
a blind little beggar without a hop
but then i remember what
humanism layered onto the brutality
of nature looks like
as all children squeak ferociously: UNFAIR...

i also saw two kestrels or perhaps
hawks circling
above me
and then i realized: what good of nature
with man's indentation to make
shape-shifting deconstruction
post-modern very acutely parallel to paradox:
heightened a narrative
for the dead-ends of nature's ability to evolve
as there are dead-end avenues
the ant will not change into anything
beyond the zenith of adaptability as ant
and man can only gesticulate
with a blind man's wand to conjure footsteps
echo and footprints
like diamonds in water and in sheen
of metal in the Lung of Sunlight

            i believe in the biochemistry
i once articulate aloof by denoting
it a meaning, love...

           das biochemie ist liebe!
this metabolism this eradication of thought
and spirit like breath
likened breath for breath
how distance
sour **** sour **** bad taste in the mouth
but that's maybe because you drooled
from the excess in your mouth
O perhaps i was wrong
this Godly **** with Wife
this antithesis erotica just plain Vanilla Sam and Sally
Sam and Sally having a romp
don't understand perhaps
that decade in my 20s spent pasturing
in Celibacy La La

        or perhaps me and English women
are incompatible: period: periodically...
perhaps too much Afro Boosters required:
i see the future as mixed race
for a time
before the splinters come out again
and there's bleeding from beneath the fingernails
like drowning men aching
to breathe grabbing at the razor's edge...

but at least now i don't have a voyeuristic downer
but like i explained to mother:
atheism, liberalism, anti-communism
anti Pan-Slavic
whatever
i wish i could tell you it's love: blah blah
and this high meaning: blah blah...
but it has truly, simply come down to the metabolism
of emotions
and the dispersing of thoughts
thoughts regardless if articulated to the gravity
of words
all better for some frightened onlooker: a reader:
but between you and me:
this is biochemistry
and i'm not afraid to say there's no "god" behind
it and i accept that my body is responsive
to: he said: she said none of us
thought to ought it for correction...

love is biochemistry but science doesn't have
to be anti-religious
but complimentary to it
after all sport has somehow stood alone
from what the sober poll, politics:

the Coliseum is the Parliament and the Church...
shame on anyone writing
anything these days and not working
in a Coliseum... or Coliseums...

Rome Eternal...
                    Rzym: WIECZNY!
ROMA ÆTERNA!
    ROMA ÆTERNA!
                    ROMA ÆTERNA!

i think that's the only tattoo i'd get:
on my wrist...
although one further would be a hummingbird
on my neck just below my ear
in homage to the god
or at least get that tattoo: ROMA ÆTERNA!
where all Holocaust survivors received
their "bar code" of a number...

Huitzilopochtli... proper **** LIFE scenario
should she see me next...
and a driving license... my my...
what plans for the next months
caged on Kauai
otherwise: not caged in London?
you can't be IN Kauai
like you can't be ON London: how can you?

6pm the rumbling of a hunger
sure: there is a stomach
and there's also food
but i don't really require digesting something
right now: more like i've been
presented with an *** and either
i'm eating that out or
i'm ******* it... regardless...
eating a non-edible
like *** is cartilage: my Carthage -

          is not from a symposium denoting
who isn't going to say that:
Cato didn't say so:                    again...

et hoc mihi: ad hoc tu es! amica mea cor meum!
it seems to me that:
for that you are: my love! my heart!

cheese! jeez! so much stinking cheese
of ***: raucous *** sounds
like freakish pigeons on hyperventilation
suppression machines of
******-torture
like there was never any age
difference to speak of when these two
got together.