Poetry

It should have been a garden to the earth.
The citrus trees and the loitering bees,
and the milding sun through the perfumed leaves…

When midnight ghosts stir me awake
and haunt me in my bed,
when all I love seems put at stake
in the games within my head,
then I shall rise and pray.

They call it the Castle of Cold Water.
There Ugolino on a pinnacle built his lonely citadel in signal of his reign…

What know we of Sisyphus,
his plight upon his hill?

Bear you children to the world,
for the wonder that is life.

Then let us be fishers of the storm,
for these days may bring a tempest.

He alone lives who is craftsman
or the lover of the craftsman’s art.
Otherwise man is but a beast
and lays already in corpse.