Thoughts

What would it see, tears dazed with eye:
snow white fleecy clouds,
dry rot of wood, and upward of a flying bird.
It does not see down the valley of the land tremble,
not dyed by the beauty of chaos,
not the watery field of vision of the garden.



The hollow moments organize
over time, a set of power.
Creative man inside
the endless longing,
nasty nasty veil.
It is upon us melancholy
lands.
Then the deaf leading the blind,
and the blind trying to be
deaf ears.
So any writer
compulsive need
be emotional interpreter.
Rotates the same Sampo,
mills words, to create
books. If even someone
penny would drop writer
an empty purse?



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sampo