A writer in her room, with words like weapons,
holds me as her slave.
This soldier of the sun, this child of nature,
this kamikaze star

Has fallen to the earth,
and I've searched for it since birth,
and I tried to know of warmth,
and I tried to know with words,
and here lay my mistake.

Keep it like your dreams, boy -
foggy and forgotten by the dawn.
Don't mind me, I'm
mourning for the
loss of real knowledge.

A winter at its end,
the spring impending -
the snow is melting.
Days of dreadful Green,
as imminent as dreams,
and as ignorant to autumn
as they to waking.

We waste our time like fools,
estranged to structure
and to everlasting bonds.

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