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Circe 428
We look around to see what is in bloom
but all that catches the eye is an accident
suddenly the chains of shit weigh heavily upon us
and we feel we ought not speak of beauty much
but, then again, there's that awful crack and hiss along the wire
when we blunder into the traffic
and we are caught and rundown by a red-eyed dragon
and we rise, slow-motion, through the fog
above the trolley, the city, the bridges and we slide by
fiery night and wooden lantern
and we might, might be the same tomorrow
and we might, might be turning morning's wheels
and we might, might never again speak a truer word
than when in nervous banging
our hand reaches for beauty's bell.
*Aleister Crowley
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