«The windfarer curse»—quoth the bushlet yew—
«is the selfed riddles not to rhyme:
my riddles are not thy riddles;
my worldsight is not the thine;
and thy dish is not the mine.»

«The windfarercurse»—l’on have said
up a silly jetset timewrit—
«is to never find of who to hold
that be not what for windfarers themselves.»

The yew is whole wrong: we will it not, a life
of fancy and raw saucers and classical mechanics.
In truth is our world
that of sought and verstanding,
of tids and bits and bites
and measurement of spin in tangled pears.
And what troubles, as we’ve the wits
om up many tongues to tell
and thou begripest?

What comes out two riders of steel
till these their sunset house beget?
It sounds of thunder in the iron home:
Vroom!, and vraam! «What a pious boy!»,
thou saidst near sound of the two thunders.

The risk is none excuse
om never my badgeridden
heron to beseek.
Havens are neat
albeit never as belucky
as a side thy heart’s.

Venice, October 2015 - Amsterdam, November 2015