In the untilled garden of his innocence
deep roots probed and dredged
the sodden clay of his youth
with such heavy hands, they formed a mould
from which a man inside was cast...
and, in that fierce furnace, all green was scorched
from his melting red brick eyes
and, as his mould was crudely cracked
he fell silent and broken...
then hatched, not in bronze,
but with wings...enough to fly.
