It ridicules the wisdom of the owl,
a Nomad who will visit but not stay.
Permit me all ye Gods to disassemble
the organs and the parts and lay them bare,
with fingers that would hesitate and tremble
and pupils in their unrelenting stare.
I’d ask you then, do come, help me to shatter,
the things piled on the slab to smithereens,
there is of course that somewhat urgent matter
of doing things beyond your wildest dreams.
I’m speaking of the need to smash to bits
the semblance of a love as it must be,
then get together quickly all your wits
and do it for the sake of liberty.
Then sweep the whole caboodle off the floor,
spread thinly on a sterile pane of glass,
now shape it into one new metaphor,
then dress it in a petticoat of brass.
Grab hold of it, two pairs of hands will do,
allow no force on earth to come and pry,
such things would never need a touch of glue
but now and then the silence of a sigh.