Renga.Mykl.org

Compar'd to these stormes, death is but a qualme, Hell somewhat lightsome, and the'Bermuda calme.

My mother is soil A warm brook and vengeful wind And I have her smile

and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else

I wanted to wade with the dead in muddy river water and fill the new holes in their beautiful bodies with rosemary. With snow white lilies and melted wax.

An apple blossom Trembling on a sunlit branch From the weight of bees.

within her circle of notice

slumps of snow

Le ricchezze e la povertà sono le più antiche e mortali infermità delle repubbliche.

second snow— a sparrow quakes one frosty sprig.

it will unbury a corpse, given time