Wince
Welcome to my white fog, devoid day
there is a sodding care in your thump,
dally in my intellect-one brass trump,
be in my feast of mind, a rose bouquet.
Wild flowers of Spring fiddle in winds,
where wraiths infinitely rewind feasts,
for one time my soul was lost in mists,
your tear's warm communion and wince.
It was your sanctified, sublimate care,
to embrace ideally whatever was wreak,
once more the trump was to play meek,
to time dancers in your mind and glare.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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