Morning was patient with us — her and me,
Within earful white walls and solemn
gardens.

Poetry reigned.

She: How do you submit your thoughts —
on a gold platter with a prophet's head
and a skin of dead wine?

And the eloquence of Ancient Rome returned.
Tongue opened up on the large breath of
a sot's revelry. High, profound proverbs of poetry...

I hastened up: A hunter's skill is seen on the veins
of his arms. On a platter of poetry,
the sun beams on the blessings of the initiated.

Words rise and fall on undulating terrains of
fig's foundations. Towards the green search
for summons, trials revisit.