Chiedo alla Donna in rosso, che lavora la filo Rosso
Di nuovo, il Dio-Signora stessa, i pericoli, i pinnacolo, e culmine,
i punti più alti e zona di massima luce del benefici dell’anima sicura…
benefici dell’anima sicura et convinto… Piccolo Io–
Io ho– la il risposte poco chiare dal Dominion dei sue Capelli.
Shall I risk what is already the-sure-happy for the road that is not conquered?
Shall I envy before, with the roof over the head and the limbs of my body,
The excitement of the rolling? Shall I give in, into greed, razor-backed,
Evolved into and up from the land, gently, for gentle is the root and gentle is the thing?
Prophetess, forgive me. I will not mean the carnage I will bring.
If I can unmake what is to be made, allow me. And push away, I,
From bile, yellow atavism, from hatred, from patronizing linkage.
And Amen to the choices that does not make a neighbor wallow,
Or burn even a stage, a fake, a flake. May even the versions of me
Sitting by the busy desk be ashamed and afraid of the abuse that follows,
Rest it below the Dolmen of Menga– this little, busy, boneless diaspora.
But know this and be still: I will not be praying forever.
Prophetess, Prophetess, roll the dice for my landlocked soul,
And roll it even gentler. My body is just a thing.
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