In white, in paint too representative Blurring the terrain, II. Quest and Conquest In a single floral stroke, With a hand freed from weight, The surge of swirling wind defines In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse Close at the end of distance the two Chose Again awaken from your being gone to find Appear to lift up from the lake; Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa?des Shadows keep piling up as surfaces And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring At the end of the road. Even if they are staring By treesė¾¬r might see as the masonry Is it almost honey, is it snow? Across the heavens' gray. their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
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