We stopped in the primordial catacombs
Waiting for the wrinkled aromas unto fresh Italy,
And fog that had diverged the roots, laine with fallen roses;
And I’ve heard the lonesome flow around the shore,
Unrest among the madmen and women in the streets,
And no more betwixt the gleaming roads, and yellow winters
From before—“Let the darkness among the pillared mercy
Surf onto the blood stone,”
But no more than I have brought to the laden rolling ash
That scatters throughout my palms, sodden by the weeping hymn
That crest blood among my hands, chorused by the fading chill,
And unread—the hymn! The sightless glow of the sun reminds me
Of the rioting hills under the stripped despaired sky, and I, tempted, among the shrine of the long shore,
Ill-lit by the whet ghostlike stars that are silent in their preamble of light,
Forgiven by the turn of a dismal shame, and I said, as the torrent of a tossing flickered shadow
Of soft murmurs from a silver, sunlit haulm by the bleeding tears that shiver with blue waves
And I fall before the red branches, frail, wholly upon the utter stone that reared none for blood-sake,
And I kneel before the laughter and its fever, and its pride,
From before the evening of the distant fire among the blackened ocean, a beige fog,
Which lured me alone,
I called out to you, but you did not hear me or my cries,
And the raging, quiet immortal clutch among sticks, which stirs among my feet,
As the shell of an ivy seed is spat onto the rippling white waters in vain,
And the belfry rose above the hill, glared from the sun at the subside of the window,
Weary, my eyes go to from the lamp-lights to the florets with a rich scent of apples,
And the ash slips through my skin, heaving a thin, neat wilt of rye leaves like a sunset in Florence,
And I waited for the rêve of a misty moon to light over my palms, my hands. Why leave me here in your palms of stones and muffled alleys,
Here I hander among the steep shadows, where I cry, where I cry for your name, do not leave me here alone!
As I swallowed the dark, wild winds, and their phantom rivers,
As one poised breath, suddenly, I see beyond the squash twilight in their waken flames,
And sleep among the citadel comes with red, teary eyes on the roaring skies
I’ve heard the lonesome flow around the shore,
Unrest among the madmen and women in the streets
In the wan dew and brown-fog,
And no more betwixt the gleaming roads, and yellow winters
From before—“Let the darkness among the pillared mercy surf onto the blood stone.”

4 thoughts on “A Red Hyacinth.

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