04-18-2013, 03:55 PM
Revised (April 20, 2013):
From beneath our steel clad wheels popped rocks as air borne lead,
which sped through road caressing thickets, as with my mean sight I had rent
their finely woven robes which caught great lights from out the sky to hoard
down deep within their folds, lazily embowering two cold trunks,
rooted steady on the coach’s couch. With every revolution then along our path,
I discerned more deeply slim, reposing forms no finer made by sun fast looping,
than by lulling moon.
And Death now pleats his dark, fine drapes within my sight and dulls
awaiting for our station. His cheeks are pale for lack and borne
much higher than are mine. His robe is neatly shorn, concealing a beating pride
-- he spares no civil eye to maid released from service on this night;
instead he dreams, behind hard brow, of rosy cheeks and breasts still hot and swelling
with those rare breaths that he most covets.
The other is adorned with robes of white, fine cotton, woven with a thousand threads
or more per inch. How dashing he does look as now he bores my weary vision
with lack of vital motion. Yet men and ladies, and pomp itself, all do flatter
his stiff form and hope to get in good with him. But have they sat as I, to gaze
upon this vain and unlearned fool that lacks engender wit for lack of need of it?
At last the mound comes near enough that I can see it’s open, and full of promise
of sweet parting for us three within this carriage. Then perhaps I’ll get to rest
from fools who vaunt their place within this realm, majestic yet mundane and boring.
Original:
From beneath our steel clad wheels
popped rocks as air borne lead,
which sped through road caressing thickets,
while I rent open with my sight
a hundred finely woven folds,
embowering these hard trunks unseen,
though deeply rooted down within our coach’s couch.
With every revolution now along our path,
I discern still more deeply these dull, reposing forms
made no finer in the sun fast looping
than in that lulling moon.
“One short ride to know them well,”
I thought with inward grimace.
“How much more about themselves
could they tell that I had missed?”
Dear Death forever plays the man affected,
while Immortality has no need to be polite.
Yet Death now fidgets within my sight,
and dulls awaiting for our station.
His cheeks are high borne,
his robe is neatly shorn,
and conceals his beating pride -- it’s clear he thinks
old maids like me to be a bore, and dreams
behind black eyes of rosy cheeks
of breaths still hot,
yet drawing to their close.
And the other is adorned
with robes of white, fine cotton, woven
with a thousand threads or more per inch.
How dashing does he look
as now he bores my weary vision.
Pomp and ladies, with men, too,
all do flatter his pure form
and hope to get in good.
Have they sat as I, to gaze
upon this vain and unlearned fool?
What vitality could engender wit
within this breast that has no need of it?
At last the mound comes near, and I see
its dark opening holding promise out to me.
Perhaps soon we three will part within the dark,
so that I may finally rest from the tools
of this here majesty so mundane that by it I am tired.
I beg your pardon. This thing kind of grew more than I expected it too.
From beneath our steel clad wheels popped rocks as air borne lead,
which sped through road caressing thickets, as with my mean sight I had rent
their finely woven robes which caught great lights from out the sky to hoard
down deep within their folds, lazily embowering two cold trunks,
rooted steady on the coach’s couch. With every revolution then along our path,
I discerned more deeply slim, reposing forms no finer made by sun fast looping,
than by lulling moon.
And Death now pleats his dark, fine drapes within my sight and dulls
awaiting for our station. His cheeks are pale for lack and borne
much higher than are mine. His robe is neatly shorn, concealing a beating pride
-- he spares no civil eye to maid released from service on this night;
instead he dreams, behind hard brow, of rosy cheeks and breasts still hot and swelling
with those rare breaths that he most covets.
The other is adorned with robes of white, fine cotton, woven with a thousand threads
or more per inch. How dashing he does look as now he bores my weary vision
with lack of vital motion. Yet men and ladies, and pomp itself, all do flatter
his stiff form and hope to get in good with him. But have they sat as I, to gaze
upon this vain and unlearned fool that lacks engender wit for lack of need of it?
At last the mound comes near enough that I can see it’s open, and full of promise
of sweet parting for us three within this carriage. Then perhaps I’ll get to rest
from fools who vaunt their place within this realm, majestic yet mundane and boring.
Original:
From beneath our steel clad wheels
popped rocks as air borne lead,
which sped through road caressing thickets,
while I rent open with my sight
a hundred finely woven folds,
embowering these hard trunks unseen,
though deeply rooted down within our coach’s couch.
With every revolution now along our path,
I discern still more deeply these dull, reposing forms
made no finer in the sun fast looping
than in that lulling moon.
“One short ride to know them well,”
I thought with inward grimace.
“How much more about themselves
could they tell that I had missed?”
Dear Death forever plays the man affected,
while Immortality has no need to be polite.
Yet Death now fidgets within my sight,
and dulls awaiting for our station.
His cheeks are high borne,
his robe is neatly shorn,
and conceals his beating pride -- it’s clear he thinks
old maids like me to be a bore, and dreams
behind black eyes of rosy cheeks
of breaths still hot,
yet drawing to their close.
And the other is adorned
with robes of white, fine cotton, woven
with a thousand threads or more per inch.
How dashing does he look
as now he bores my weary vision.
Pomp and ladies, with men, too,
all do flatter his pure form
and hope to get in good.
Have they sat as I, to gaze
upon this vain and unlearned fool?
What vitality could engender wit
within this breast that has no need of it?
At last the mound comes near, and I see
its dark opening holding promise out to me.
Perhaps soon we three will part within the dark,
so that I may finally rest from the tools
of this here majesty so mundane that by it I am tired.
I beg your pardon. This thing kind of grew more than I expected it too.