He dreams his way up to being,
quietly, with unhurried breath,
as though breath were a blossomed staircase
leading to a perfect sky
where kind-eyed gods themselves
with slow, sinuous movements,
ancient skin and immaculate hands
would greet him kindly: "Friend!"
As though the net to catch human souls
were masterfully spun of poetry,
and nothing but the sound of words,
not even the sense--the color...
Where are now the moon-lit woods
standing up darkly and strictly
in the soft, thick mist of his longing,
now that he has constructed his perfect staircase
and burst through his blooming sky.
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