on the door there is a weeping eye
life’s mad dance reflected in its pupil
does it sorrow over loves lost
in torino or paris or rome
where the people of passion dwell?
i have always belonged to a stolid race
slow moving, deep thinking
reflective, decisive and rock-solid
never bright and fiery, but glowing steadily
the faery-folk of my motherland were shy
cautious, suspicious
nature’s ancient wild innocents
now snuffed out by science
eyes are the windows to the soul
father brown mixes with mother green
swirling, becoming only me
the heart’s door is locked
