Ode to the North Wind When the sap-time of the summer no more shimmers among these ardent verses, gushes forth, only the hardness of world manifests the deranged threads of a sluggish sun. Deserted like some estranged songs of seabirds, once merrily contrived by the crystallized fragments of the North Wind, gently enclosed in the stagnant offing, ever enervating. Skid on the edges of far field, the rhyming wings of those heavenly beings, laved in crepuscular breezes, emulating minds marvel the unseen. A mendicant mourns in silence: “In due time, scepter of gravity will ensconce me within his folds, immanent, vertiginous, resolute for the precursory of a silting delight, called from doldrums, placid, effortless.” 2004-9-13 |