mj2lu

Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Against this sky no longer of our world.
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
The road, but not far enough ahead
In a single floral stroke,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
The edge of that other square cut from the right
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Against this sky no longer of our world.
At these masses the snow hides from me.
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Wheezing ravens, when
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
End of the comedy.
This perfection, this absence.