speak out
if you know anything about the bird
that has theft the handkerchief
the tales you have told so long
are all about the flippant bowl of the stone
even the woollen hand-glove knows
what the missing magic is
behind the water
that has been sprayed out
from the headstrong fountain
everyone does not have the bright gland
to keep pace with the waves
so i do perform bathing
again and again
in the folds of your cloth-end
and some persons
i don’t know who they are
fill the balloons with scandals
and let them fly
in the flakes of bronze
but never for the festival of winter
in the night of the last day
of the month of poush
for what i am searching
is a autobiography of the high-road
