to the forge

  in le of flowering nard.

  ttle boy stares at ares.

  taring hard.

  in the shaken air

  the moon moves her amrs,

  and shows lubricious and pure,

  s of in.

  “moon, moon, moon, run!

  if the gypsies come,

  t

  to make ;

  “let me dance, my little one.

  he gypsies come,

  the anvil

  ight.

  “moon, moon, moon, run!

  i can feel;

  “let me be, my little one,

  dont step on me, all starce!“

  closer comes the horseman,

  drumming on the plain.

  the forge;

  his eyes are closed.

  the olive grove

  come the gypsies, dream and bronze,

  their heads held high,

  their hooded eyes.

  o owl calls,

  calling, calling from its tree!

  the sky

  he hand.

  the forge,

  all ting, crying.

  the air is veiwing all, views all.

  t the viewing.