and who gave Death a feather,
so It not be touched by a crippled hand?
with beds stacked on crooked hay
merry are the eyes with polluted mourn;
and gathered about me
comes and goes the shuffling feet
of Barley, of Corn, of midsummer Wheat.
gone are my days of seclusion and waves;
no seafarer yet has dared to,
dive with the skull of impending terror
or rise above all that is profoundly quaint.
here in this place where begins. nothing new;
be light between your peers
sink beneath the roots of the Celeriac Queen
be her guide in her moments of unpleasant extremes.
play thistle to her harp, I say.
be fickle, but in a more objective way;
be no nearer than I,
to Deaths unknown Kingdom.
this place where dust and ashes flow,
where swings my features to and fro.
be no nearer than I,
to the rapturous applause of the stuffed mannequin.
dressed in her freshly peeled Squirrel skin;
be on your way, I say!
to your dark deserted halls of unrivaled bliss.
where Serpents dance,
cower and kiss.
where all Life is everlasting.
Life is Life. I know;
but Life is all it is: