I see fuzzy shapes of verdant mass;
by Peter Rolny
Trees, trunks, a decaying carcass,
Like inkblots at first but then a spire,
A city. Above it broods a fire,
A lion, a mouth, whose piercing glow
Transmutes the bark and leaves below,
As mists of saintly breaths arise
Whispering, lightning strikes the eyes.
I hear strange echoes in the land
Where many tribes and nations stand.
These bronzed oracles sing a name,
My name, my virgin name.
Their branching arms deliver hence
A touch of native innocence.