For Thine is the Garden

East, I rise with the mother of madness.

I pace

West, I fall with the sound of mere sadness.

The birds’ whisper

North, I lead with my fist fit for ranting,

The cicadas’ song

South, I lie with the fallow, for planting.

But

 

In the dark I wonder for a season,

The night I walked

In the light I wander for a reason.

The cut grass

In the hall I sing vis-a-vis treason!

The sonnet

In the garden I plant a cheap eden.

But

 

But I watch the Eagle soar above,

I walk

But I feel the Angel pray with love,

I fall

But I hear the Lion’s dreaded roar –

I bow

But the Ox is my guide and anything more –

Fallow hollow fellow following.

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