The songs that erupt
Are gist of the poesy,
Come by themselves, hark,
Stark as prisoners in a cave
Let out to sunlight, ragged
And beautiful when you look close
And see underneath the beards
the holy blue eyes of humanity
And brown.
The stars on high sing
songs of their own, in motion
that doesnt move, real,
Unreal, singsong, spheres: -
But human poetries
With God as their design
Sing with another law
Of spheres & ensigns
And rip me a blues,
Son, blow me a bop,
Let me hear ‘bout heaven
In Brass Fluglemop
195th Chorus
© Copyright: Джек Керуак, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112032611022
Свидетельство о публикации №112032611022
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