<p>I go dreaming roads
of the afternoon. The hills
golden, the green pines,
the dusty oaks . . .
Where does the road lead?
I go singing , a traveler
along the way . . .
–The evening is falling
“In my heart I had
the thorn of a passion,
I succeeded in pulling it out one day:
Now I no longer feel my heart.”</p>
<p>And all the countryside for a moment
remains, quiet and somber,
meditating. The wind sounds
in the poplars by the river.</p>
<p>The evening grows darker;
and the road that winds
and feebly shows white,
grows dim and disappears.</p>
<p>My song returns to moan:
“Oh sharp, golden thorn,
would that I might feel you
thrust in my heart again.”</p>
<p>I remember reading a post not too long ago asking, “Why do I come back here again?”
So, when do you lay this to rest? When your children . . . what?</p>