creature of Walden lake,
with the blessing of God
dweller in the skies,
nourisher and reaper in the orbits of joy.
Full of yarns
from the bunches of grapes of the August vineyard,
the picker of the grapes
caught the grace of Dionysus,
the worship of life.
The receiver of the Christ teaching’s,
neither a publican or a pharisee,
only something else more spontaneously joyous,
without taxes, hidden friend of Orwell,
judge of the tyrants and the magnates.
It flew over Javert’s top hat
full of meaning of life, in the endless fields of simplicity.
And so the wind blew
and took Javert’s hat,
and the river Seine
even drowned his hat,
with a winging of a bird his staff dropped too
into the Acheron, the river for the memories of monsters.
The Book of the public interest
an empty ledger, a tomb of life.
Unguarded is the sky
and yet men are wingless still,
without the vineyard of August
in an Unseen Wine of Freedom,
with grapes iridescent – the infinity of the otherworldly.
They are on their own, the vines of August.
On their own the olive groves and the fields of wheat.
Governors of the earth without men
their winged friends,
tax-free without perversions of men
the reveries of Rousseau,
the nameless brothers of Francis
the untiring flocks of their Freedom and Joy.
(Photograph by wikimedia commons)