and as we with each second rise —
we soar against our cruel giver,
wrapped tighter, closer, by the hunger of vines
Time determines you. Sing!
the frowning flowers demand, to your lover,
out into the silent dunes of wilderness let it ring.
Our paintings testify against us. What is this sore
and haunted attachment to loving?
What is this craving of our souls for gore?
The ghoul tightens the vines, hits our soles
with a stick of cornel. We are losing
silence in our brilliant prison, faith in our roles.