Publication 606
By orwell on
Saturday, March 6, 2004
at
17:04
Location:
Ireland
Registered:
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Posts:
18
SearchQuote
There is description- unwritten
and ordered in the philosophers hut
where a broom is just the broom
for cleaning up histories mistakes-
for there is no sense clearly said
to acknowledge an insignificant-
act, in a larks untainted wings
hovering in this world, of language
purpled on the wild heathers
and yellows of a swift feather
caught on a, coarse gorse bush
of rough cut Connemara bog,
where the gypsies ponies roam
untamed, broken, to be free-
In a barren paddock, enclosed
within walls of slabs and mortars
glistens, that white washed stone
near his cottage, mountain streams
down sounds of a young river
listening for breaths at the source
of those, unnoticed, unsaid, words,
writing this plaque for a no named
Austrian man whose only society
alone lived for those breasts befriended
in an Evening song, of late lark or robin
whose music opened, where time no longer
was the spent thoughts failing to accompany
an untaught language made not to mans order.
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