The pain of being born into matter.Rain. We are forced to fly,I do not betray you, I still go forward,The bees are buzzing,In the woods, close by,At these masses the snow hides from me.In white, in paint too representativeIX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedBetween the high and the low, in this night.With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Palladio who beckons from the other shore,When Arctic winds crack down from Canadagiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,And piled up at the base of the columnsRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.Is it almost honey, is it snow?Merely a mockery of springOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
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