SIXTY

To drink the wine of sixty drums
And patch things up with rough and knotted wool
I would have ridden sixty fiery steeds
All springing from the dragons' stables' womb.

Who knocks? Who dares? Who's in need
of warmth and piteous mercy's
icy drops?


Who knows... Who'll ever know?
Who truly cares,
if winds do bite, or soothe, or whisper,
or wipe one's brow with golden laurel leaves?