Look at the calling reserves and leaves
and countless sills 
the gone but living faces,
nodding faces and summoning sheets. 
The priests wait for a drink, dreaming
ardent sheep on shepherds' shoulders sleeping.

I am not a willing sheep
nor petrified of the solemnity, sanctity of shrines 
I run with the wind and the stars
and the vacuity of time. 
Someone has stolen my boat and paddle;
in my head and feet, waves and torrents.

Thunders turn tornadoes on the tongue, 
in tears tongues tease, unkiss;
the ledge is a bush lantern 
breaks the dark with axes of light.
I, the lantern in the storm of time
searching for vibrant thunders of sills
breaking axes on the frozen face of form.