Blond youth,
make hue of sober days.
Burn like an actor star.

The mountain sinks of void
make sound you knew
while dreaming
what the chords of cosmos are.

Some nights tremble
strange strings
in your head
and across
the love of evening
platforms
evoke her tread.

The dusk returns her Greek
prose figure
while the oxwagons of thought
trek out to space

Can you not move or speak?
Her hair is basalt
music,
light and metre.

Wild fowl, apes and cavemen
wait with you
through the starstream