Is it the fault of the pine tree or dunes That the foundations break and dissolve? That the head climbed to the sky Before the roots had not pushed deep enough?
An elk-torn apple tree cross. Some rotten eaves and posts. Underneath lies my childhood Along with a clearing’s bright sun, With a shepherdess’ barefoot steps There, under the ruins of a shed.
Scene 1: The Council of the Baltic gods The gods gather
In azure vaults of heaven soaring bright,
In lofty castles filled with endless joy,
The God of Thunder, Perkons, dwells in light,
And pleasure knows whose sweetness cannot cloy.
The towering pines near sea shore sands
The wind has broken with ruthless hands
They see the bright future they long to defend
Refusing concealment and scorning to bend:
And days lived out are our clay,
and sleepless nights – our salt; to the window
where cloud shadow just crossed, bends
a branch of lilac that bloomed this morning, like a joke
On the pavement he found, not a heart,
but a potato
It wasn't even round,
but irregular and finished
like a sentence in a praised but plodding
literary effort