Where to go to live with poets,
When their poems are forgotten,
And the sun pours light on
Traces of that print line,
Left in the snow of oblivion,
They soon wind up buried,
And we are reading their works,
Not to unravel the forgotten code.
Just to touch gently
And feel the warmth of hearts.
For ice, archival skin
All the same a virgin or a youth,
Fly fast scooter,
The serpentine road to Parnassus,
And hear the thunder peal,
The fate that awaits us.