Saturday, August 25, 2012

The color of the rising Sun again

After Petrarch's ‘I’ ò pregato Amor, e ’l ne riprego,’

The color of the rising Sun again
amused me. My right heel had gotten hurt
one night in New Orleans. The loyalty
I hold for her is unmatched, there's no way

for anyone to express it—deny
her and he is lost. The clouds are souls
that wander the daytime, she's loving me
the way the Sun loves trees. The clouds follow

a greater stream of air, weather illumines
pastures with soft dew. The morning's virtue
is in her moistened breath, she is the star

that ushers in the dawn. Who might disdain
her in this world as their oppressor? He
who leaps into the void is made beautiful.

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