That are a replica of stairs the nuns
Would climb--yes, Plato'd be appalled. Each bears
The cares of children, artists, each one runs
Deft dewy droplets down the long, lined leaves
And waves in wavelets then, each dancing, leaves.
Perhaps great Plato's thoughts and dreams absurds
Our views on art that Aristotle cured--
A copy of a copy set in words
Makes voiceless every sweetly singing bird
That makes the poet swoon and rise and bow
And even love the seagulls on the bow.
Why sail in seas and row on rivers rising
From deep, dark places in our souls, from death
Where deepest knowledge rise from our surmising,
Through our unforgetting, warmth letting breath
Communicate in complex chaos, life
In art, the beauty forming endless life.
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