Morbis Artificum

I.

This bitter tea

Line by line

Gulp by gulp

(Each passing gift)

Tasting like rice

And a bit of grief

Is every thought

I can diminish

Mouth in mind

Because I cannot afford

To risk not pushing

Not finishing

My cup in time.

II.

Sorry, my duty is this reminder,

One truth is

You are content

With foolishness,

Nose deep in vain affections,

Contriving needless business,

Blended masterfully into the day,

Comforts that betray,

Man-made ailments.

III.

The cardinal and the breeze are waiting

The children are waiting in the field

Your inner chamber is waiting

On top of the hill

With the dead language of your people

/ /

You have been taught to think

The oasis is a desert, for the weary and the mad,

But it is wealthy, the room of your own,

Beyond any imaginable group of imaginings

Hence and infinity, an entire world of worlds

/ /

Your capacity is waiting

But their buzzing pricks your ears,

Telling power and joy are in the senses,

And you are drunk, your sails are stayed,

Your body has been stolen,

Put in some corner,

A harvest of organs,

The farmer neglecting His great work

The great work of the soul

The humble work

Of the perpetually awakened.