Constant freshness of morning
On the side of the mountain
Along the field of slums
Leaves the carriages
Of wasting spirits
themselves behind a hinting time
Passing under the sun
Hung low and lost
In the inescapable labyrinth Of age.
Constant freshness of morning
On the side of the mountain
Along the field of slums
Leaves the carriages
Of wasting spirits
themselves behind a hinting time
Passing under the sun
Hung low and lost
In the inescapable labyrinth Of age.
Umbriate Press Poetry 