East, I rise with the mother of madness.
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.
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!
In the garden I plant a cheap eden.
But I watch the Eagle soar above,
But I feel the Angel pray with love,
But I hear the Lion’s dreaded roar –
But the Ox is my guide and anything more –
Fallow hollow fellow following.