Absurdity grows like a fatal flower
in the compost of senses, of brains and hearts.
Nothing more, no heroes, no fresh saviours;
and we remain rotting in native reason.
I want to stride towards madness and suns,
white suns of moon at the strike of noon, bizarre,
and distant echoes bitten by uproar
and baying, beyond, filled with ruby-red hounds.
Here, in the snow, lakes of rose, cloud
where birds nest in feathers of wind;
before caverns of evening, a golden toad
who never moves and gulps a patch of scenery.
Beaks of herons, opening wide for nothing,
in a beam, a fly now restless, now still:
joyful unconsciousness and the deranged ticking
of the madman’s quiet death, I hear it well!