Abstraction

As the wind sits on the hill
And softly talks to the trees
The shadow of tomorrow kills
And the mushroom has no keys

When the tangerine sleeps
On the dead green grass
The mountain leaps
At the sight of the past

The weight of the noon
And the sight of the hate
Will seal up the room
With a honey-comb gate

While the glittering smoke
Rises down to the stars
The black apple awoke
To the sound of Mars