31/10/2006 7:31:44 PM

Yearning

Holy sun of god has come

to stop the brown mountains

from screaming in nails of grass,

digging, digging.

Scratching the grass,

to the weeded opera tuned in schreeches.

I get there, in between

the folds of green,

to find potted ducks,

flowers singing daisy.

The blades are fierce and scream,

not letting me near,

but as for the milk of blueness,

still silence...