Music curls
In the stone shells
Of the arches, and rings
Their stone bells.
Music lips
Each cold groove
Of parabolas' laced
Warp and woof,
And lingers round nodes
Of the ribbed roof
Chords open
Their flowers among
The stone flowers; blossom;
Stalkless hang.
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Comments
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This gave me the impression and image of two separate but underlining-equal things. One, a violin playing in the distance, and a the blossoming of a flower - even before the ending where it mentions that latter.
It's a quaint piece, like a bee after its honey or the bear after its fish. It's quaint, and that's the way I see this as.
It lingers to the side yet wakens in the morning.
A great piece by the author Tessimond, great indeed.
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