Larenopfer

The Fountain

47 WintEr MorninG The waterfall has frozen tears, the jackdaws squat upon the pond. My sweetheart has red ears and ponders over escapades beyond. The sun has kissed us. Lost in dreams a minor chord floats through the trees. We’re full of vigour, full of schemes, alive in winter morning melodies. tHE FountAin Absent is that old endearing fountain poetry that used to spring from triton’s18 open shell, the babbling source so clear, that song of yearning, giving language for the streets to sing. young lovers used to come at night to listen to the splashing sound. By pairs they gathered in their rite and heard their longings echo in delight, good omen for their vows profound. Alas, the source was spurned by human hand that made the water climb. The lovers come no more, for triton turned misogynous; his shell adjourned, grew verdigris and mute with time. ...