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Magnus Annas

Summer's sensuality
New leaves green with love
Mark the ritual's beginning
A ritual old as the unmarked time
That passed before us all,
In which we were called to spring, to dance
Butterflies and mindless acrobats
Like flowers silently chanting Carpe Diem,
Like Chinese paintings, sense and shadow
Or in the guise of neolithic figures
Scratched upon rocks -
This is what we are,
What we became.

     The question 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,
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,
Begs 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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