| Turn, Turn When the bolts of my rigid sanguine heart start to turn, turn, winter will roll fitful ice through the berth of her choleric breast. Escape the freeze we shall not, only turn and turn and seek sages for fresh dawns. Imprisoned fields still flourish in season, yet the snarling barb weeps, painting nets against the greens of birth; we try to contain toxic tears in flammable heavens. The burning sisters watch palsied, peeking out under soft blankets, grieving. shalome � 2004 |