Falling asleep in my crimson bed / The President’s Lady is holding my head / And down below, peeking from the covers, my toes / By nymphs from the forest rubbed to my knees / I am reclining.
Watching the tops of trees / Kicking their feet under blankets of heaven; I see them humming / And the grass / To me, is the green feather / Of eagles intertwined / To me, is the skin of our nation in brotherhood.
Closing my eyes and retreating to mind / I sip wine with Whitman.
Womb of our subconscious / The unconscious mon.
A man insane, rending his clothes / Jumps into the dark road / Two hours past midnight
He sees – The Lunatic watches / A woman of the night dressed / Pouring red wine into the ends / Of her silver hair.
To this man / She was built / How he remembered the past.
And getting closer to touch / He witnessed her skin was budding grass.