Por Beverly Baff
PITY the mind who summers on its love
And finding there the seas of childhood’s leap
Contrives a terrace made of sun and jazz
Where birds come early and the clarinets
Of insects murmur in the tall grass.
For this mind has no voyages to take;
Though it dote on travel, is landlocked;
And the beach is cinematic, disappears
From shores approaching; going toward,
It moves the thing it so meant most to forward.
It is a country wired all around,
But not for sound. It is a statue
Coming toward its life; stone boundaries
Are there, where lips, hands, eyes
Shall never measure life into surprise.
It leaps in the wind, is tall in the evening.
It sings the song the summer morning sings;
Yet roses carry back desire to
Brick houses, gardens, early love:
It searches; what it searches for is lost.
The toys are broken; princesses are false
So like chameleons we change
Putting color off and taking on
The grimace of approaching years
Till finally the pathos disappears.
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