I lay my skin bare before my eyes
My right hand fanning the life off my bosom,
or is it the heat?
The cold froze my four senses
while the Summers stole my hearing.
This is the year of the telescope
and just yesterday,
we celebrated airports, annually.
The trees are hermaphrodites
Their bodies sweat of erring.
Three figures of gloom run wild in the villages
Dear my! Save your girls!
From their fathers, mothers, and their brothers
What provokes the animals shouts out to trees
The time will grow weary, frail, and old
of its occupants and consumers.
My time has gone beyond me,
and I am left in the Capitol
or am I the Capital?
Read Also: Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria