Nephelai stanza five: a quest

(some triolets)

steppin out barefooted, tipsily cakewalking

into the sun, I am trying to reach out for

a Czech friend, a young bum, I want to stay with me.

I sit on a stone, in front of me a meadow

below my horizon fog is slowly rising,

awaiting a possible dawn crossing the clouds.

The clouds are moving to the North, they are golden.

They blend into so nicely an azure: this sky

sings to me tales that were lost to me for some time:

Addressing you in an old Indo-European

meter; Psappha would have been pleased about Roethke’s song

that goes so: “I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss?”

It is quite worth the praise to a Lydian lover.

Theodore swinging surreal, sings like that to us:

My lady loves, delighting in what is.” so he cried.

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