In a single floral stroke,Snow haze gleams like sand.Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passFrom there. Toward . . .Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,Like theirs ends? From what distant point of visionWhat? What can you do?I seek, above all, in the wandering"Now it's my turn to sing!"Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—And so I gaze avidly