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IX. Omen
My path – a faded crow now – thrones my head
and I hate autumn’s big, colorful death
and I fear the strutting-peacock life
I look back onto – posing, feather-spread:
denying beauty, like a conniving icon
that loves itself, gazes, and slaps its face;
I’m a dark-walker on my chessboard fate:
someone else moves me, till I reach the box;
I dreamed a dragon flying in azure sky –
and a lamb-cloud’s blood fell into the Jordan.
My troubled soul’s on fire, unfathoming,
(like a person who never changes:
hates terribly, and dreams with fear)
while my heart worships its muse once again.