While the evasive meaning won't
As yet surrender to our pesters,
The day is startling us unwarned
With almond air, with the petals,
With its white cloud in the hands,
Its rise-again-without-cease art,
All gems to cherish in the sands
As windfall of a perfect blizzard.
As eyes are getting through the print
And ash is sewn through the air,
No daybreak tint, no slightest hint
Of coming morning out there,
The white that isn't painted yet
Comes up to me without scare
And in the magic alphabet
My own green's a weaker pair.
The waves are rolling - knock the drum
To start the age of motor roar,
Yet through the age the almond hum
Demands us out of the door
To overwhelm, to strike and stun,
And throws in its treasure one
Of those rivaling in splendor
Those of day one. The silent lore.
I'm not an owner, not a lord,
I won't forget. I will remember.
Original: ya-miranda.dreamwidth.org/717676.html
Original (video): www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wq-Fv4jlPQ