|
in its last hours
the golden wofthound of the sun;
breathes torrents of its black blood into the
night,
shy currents of your thought
moving through this world of conciousness.
the distant
trembles of thunder;
the cloudbursts of your fury,
the murmur of steam from the center of your heart,
who
walks through the hall of the stone men
who has the eys of the blind turning to follow him;
|
