Letter Of Parables

Letter Of Parables Snakes That Breathe Sweets Scented Airs And Mists Roaming I shall call their phone to check I shall not want a medicine that might harm Hear, hear. On My Fingers I Pressed My Palm And said: Two. Either this or that. I shall be comfortable with either. Then I shall like too The winter winds though cold Stringing as a violin round the corners of the Ancient buildings. I yearn to be in the Cemetery This time This hour. My heart will break I calculate It be too thin Now And Desolate. In to the marsh of Time myriads of figures wade. Black figures Sinking with every pace. The wisdom bird sits with eyes Half-open Half closed And makes not noise. The nightingale sings. The lamp-post swings.