Dost thou hear chords dirge through summer rose allies,
untold words bunched in kisses and honeyed smells
whilst white lute breeze plaits lilies down the valleys?
Here me tut for thy touch still blooms in noon bells
arousing chaos to absent null of all times crest
and spills nectar on an open wound, old soul’s bruise.
Where is thy light? Dark, whet cold sinks, far places rest,
Past summer gorge hath shrank to a cruse
Full of dried tears soaked in mint of potpourris;
Buds of melody anoon are gnawed and shred
Rat like itchy hope bitten by swarm of fleas
Whilst scratched is a prickled dream to its end dread—
Still, canst thee bite winter with thine visage light
And let summer sleep hither to bud tart night?