hanging off the shoulder
of the wicked, winsome Eve.
How terrible could your wrath be, your least displeasure
when this its greatest joy rings so loud throughout the trees
that I have awoken
dragged from something like death, like dying
into all that is green light, green life.
It was winter when I slept and spring replaces dawn
but when I go to sleep it will grow cold again
So turn and turn about but I am a man of fire
heat and light drawn from me, hissing, into the air
as though something taken, something stolen.
How could a man as rich as I be robbed of anything
and weep as a peasant shorn of his dear only lamb?
This sibilant whisper says nothing loath
a counter melody to her raindrop footsteps
and the whole world seems to hum.
I am the last of the first, the men of old die with me
I am new born, and late to die
let all who follow, follow me
As I follow winsome, wicked Eve.
(to the garden, the world)
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