what language this I see

what language this I see

of country's old as I

love and all besides

and all the pretty horses

children of the many gods concieved;

 

how old are we

when all about as mellow as a scream

what courtyard this of origin and draughts

as pure as he of fantasy and laughs

repressed in love 

mysterious of mind 

a beam of light;

 

what he of all besides philosophy

if blood be words

write my epitaph McCarthy long

if science be deranged

laughter in a song

to create all to destroy 

as purposeful as all who dare to sing along;

 

how many clouds have we

that shadows lungs more purposeful as he

striped with gold 

more humble than a queen of leprosy

what language this I see

early life with vagabonds and cream

spread each day to passengers with factual cuisine

no country for old men

such as me

of artefact and pure simplicity;