Follow me to the cicada kissing trees shade
Where crocked pine limbs sap high pitch oil tint,
and then fly the last time, free, straight to the sun
where the painted sunflower sky golden petals rims fade
Diving over the beach horizon waves colonnade;
run whilst sandy glass burn under feet brushing lust day glint.
This is the purple prose pungent summer edgy ache;
Write on sand-dunes footprints leading to the naked lake
And send the postcard blank, with no any words
Signed by albatross with crochet accords
of endless screaming birds.
“The poet resembles the prince of the clouds
Who is friendly to the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
Banished to ground in the midst of hootings,
His wings, those of a giant, hinder him from walking.” The Albatross, By Charles Baudelaire
(Translation by Eli Siegel)