To Be

In a cauldron of earthly noise, there I stood - 
Naked dust 'gainst the metonymy of winds,
Stooped low in kiss to the comatose wood, 
And the leagues diverged in pursuit of winds...

What worldly waste of matter, there thought I -
Lonely dust midst swooning atomies,
And remained thence in defiant soliloquy,
'Gainst sorry leagues of weathered vanities.

Such in crowds the bearer of heavy truth seeks,
Promise of wanton passers-by;
No sentient ear'd walk the blithering streets!
So she searches the silent sky.

Or the blue-eyed bard in theatres cold,
Braves the monotony of laymen jeers;
As traditions wilt to his musings bold,
That rage forth ageing years!