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And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
At the white place of the road's vanishingDismal, endless plain—<BR>
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyThe mortal architect had brought to life,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
My only thought is for what hasAs it sits there like an eventual
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,I do not betray you, I still go forward,
In the sound of the snow. What the countlessPlace of absorbing snow, itself to be
To follow in the path of their brief blossomingWith its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowThe earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—<BR>The ordinary, wide scene which begins

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This SF.net email is sponsored by: Microsoft
Defy all challenges. Microsoft(R) Visual Studio 2005.
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