There is a place, before the kings keep
Where those looks of solemn dignity
Go resignedly to weep
Between the gray trees and under gray canopy
To the place where wildflowers wilt and muses mutter
Little words, falling like white feathers in the muddy water
If one walks between the trees
There is a basin, and liquid of silvery green
Imbued with the mutterings of agony unseen
It is the words of those sorrows frail
Spoken with a breath and then a look of fright
And then a frantic run from faces clothed by night
Dissecting looks unrelenting judgments
upon the unredeemed
all who have felt the pain such as muses sing
And cried at night or betwixt the thorny leaves
have drunk of this basin green
And felt the hot swell of sorrow rising from the deep
crevices of our frail corporeal shells
And the voices of all those who filled it up
Violently swell in undulating liquid wail
From those who walk betwixt the trees
Is sounded the great collective scream.
