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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Magnus Annas Summer's sensuality When the new leaves are green with love Marks the ritual's beginning A ritual old as the unmarked time That passed before us all, In which we are called to spring, to dance Butterflies and mindless acrobats Like flowers silently chanting Carpe Diem, Like Chinese paintings, all sense and shadow Or in the guise of neolithic figures Scratched upon rocks - This is what we are, What we become. The question is asked: Did I love you in the Summer, Only Summer, when you traced yourself Upon my skin, my burning skin? Mon Amour, That's when I loved you most, Perhaps, perhaps - this question somewhat answered. All this and more When Summer comes. Play the flute she hands to you. Pick the fruit from off the altars. Whilst living in the hic et nunc, Live also in the there and then. All these things you live, If only for the time You think of them. Often Summer is the coldest time, Before the Autumn reigns. Old Dion is a madman then, A madman, and he loves to dance Upon the still soft Winter's graves. The young all follow Dion, And they laugh and jeer, Tugging Winter by the beard, Forgetting all the while That with each day They die a little more. But Dion always lives. Dion outlives them all. "Catch me a star!" she'll say, While you stand gazing at your own reflection, Whispering,"J'amour toi". Oh, now comes the rocking-horse time, When all things grow anew; Be kind, be kind - You're fragile as a shard of glass, Youth's shadow bared before the gaze of wisdom, Begging sufferance for a few more moments To bid farewell to Dion And the girls he checked out on the bus to here. Before we etch ourselves into the rocks, Be kind, O Time, For you are just un beau cheval gris, Leading us from what we know Into what we cannot see.
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