The Mystic

So the buildings, sifting through the voids of the unconscious soul:
So the buildings, red, long, luminous and large
Reflected in the tarrying pools, the wavering flags of the schools
In the erstwhile, whispering wind. A soft chuchotement
Spirals the verandas of imperial plazas, extending to the height
Of a vertigo nausea, fractals in the mass of a black-spinning wind.

The blue-silver trees are still glowing in the vortex of the dawn,
The crippled crisps of green are gathered still on boughs,
The lofty reticence of a sigh is still peeking through the curtains
Of a diaphanous petal-like blossoming wind.

Submerged giants in cavernous waterfalls are humming with silent lips
Round brass filled domes, through the twilights of a sifting fragrance
And the spirit carved silences of pallorous noise; a white wind
Is brushing cataclysms of snow, slightly marred, on the windows and rooves
Of the titans, the ramparts and watch of the broad stony guard of a gold
Wind is fluttering butterfly wings past the timbered savannahs, perching on lightly
The lilacs of wheat, and the green wind ripples the batters of sea
Winking eyelashes and bathing in pools of the gloom.

Colors of the winds, come to me in many-colored raiments and coats of the shining sun.
Colors of the winds, bathe me in bosoms of nard, feel me in ecstasies of time.
Colors of the winds, illuminate the earth's, the sun's, the moon's.