Wednesday, January 1, 2020
The universe on its appointed round
looks down upon the suffrance and moves on.
If I be quite proud, it looks on blankly
and should I laugh, the universe hears naught.
Yet, even so, I'll be a little proud
and play the antick to quicken this heart,
the mind and passions will be satisfied.
But on the wheel of memories I'm broken:
In journeys through fragmented hills
I've passed the vexing cave,
court of the banished king.
Rosalind, you followed in exile;
why do you now haunt every chamber
of my mind and leave me opening doors?
Were the lover's unsigned note,
the unmade bed to sadden me?
You took that day the first man before you,
as a ruffian in the alehouse chooses.
Child of a misogynist, turn to me.
How will your wrastler lover be tomorrow?
Are not your sisters silenced in the end—
Upon the falsehood through the night I brood.
I nod, and Rosalind and hour dissolve.
Dance, morris-men, dance for the universe,
lest the light and the fire of the sun
collapse into darkness with dreams.