![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Dream] Winter
Aug. 30th, 2009 02:44 amWhat are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
( I will show you fear in a handful of dust. )
[ There is salt in his throat and blood carving down his cheeks when he wakes; and it is all too fast that he disappears into thin air with a flick of the fingers before his lovers wake. ]
[art credit | Lily ]
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
( I will show you fear in a handful of dust. )
[ There is salt in his throat and blood carving down his cheeks when he wakes; and it is all too fast that he disappears into thin air with a flick of the fingers before his lovers wake. ]
[art credit | Lily ]
