Mes mots dans ce rêve.

The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights
Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it
By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands,
Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks
Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room
With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide, 
blistering with mercy;
The rain sojourns, the honeyed milk of fire rises 
like a passing dream;
The absence of a river cries upon the diamond reeds
By the words that rose as a village ghost, 
stemming half immersed
With a drift in breath. 
There is the silence upon an oak-leaf that falls.

Betrayed by the somber surrendered comfort, 
winding familiarity,
Thought in the frailest word. 
It is not one I recognize. The orchids,
They are cold to the fallen eternity of silence
Helpless and lonesome. They speak of a wounding hole of fondness—
Hoping beneath the stars in fog. I strain at a dozed memory,
The feet of delphinium—the bumbling of dreams, a basin for fear
In dry winters, clearing northern rocky warmth 
like lilies hung on the ground,
The sinking, the tears that are lone 
that howl in the faintest seed—hint of mercy—
Glared between delivered frost unbind that allow my eyes to close,
Cramming against the raging underfoot of stalking snow.

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