Mer (wiersz klasyka)

Mer

The changing collages of man's unbuttered will
Sustaining sustenance fron abusive substances
Of substantial habit,
Challenging the laws of rotation.
Melting into the action attains fluidity.
Tha patterns in the carpet do add up,
But you don't have to count,
For the sum is not represented
In a flat, methodical or mathematical process.
I'll take organized patterns of chaos
Over the chaotic organizations of man, any day,
Though my beard will grow astray,
As the cannons themselves pray
For proliferatio.
The fether is the valley of the monks,
The daughter, my world.
The smoke of the incense
Incessantly clearing the spirits
Of the incestuous Moliniers
And their unprinted texts,
The carbonation of the mineral water
Escaping through the hollow hallways of air,
Which we don't let fare,
In all fairness to its rightful heir, Mother (Mer).