And spilling stellar silver as to make
The tree akin to hueless roulette gambler,
Who put all on the placid zero- lake.
Those throngs would not concede the acres,
And jib, cursing the neighbors, all who err,
‘Till they themselves would slump to their fiacres,
Offended by the swift noctule croupier…
Here Walden takes his steed by the bridle!
Tossing a slag to a playboy, though soon
He’ll prove the grace of over- soul idle,
A silk of web enweaving in the noon.
He does not need to use a millstone, either
To grind a purest monad of his Being
He needs no bellows, no forges, ether
Of his divine accomplishment trilling.
His leuds are an otter and an owl ,
And dragon –flies dispassionately gave forth -
He craves to dye by violets of his soul
Green cloth of saturated mother earth…
And you’re Its loyal servant, Henry Thoreau!
We came to testify – you’re here as a whole
Not for a shop, an office in the borough,
But for a debtors cell in some dank hole.
You ‘re wittier than others and more drastic,
Be Gardener, be Carpenter, but see -
If you deny the caste ecclesiastic,
Sinai is barred for a visionary.
A vagabond encompassed by his karma,
Roam amid the trees, not knowing any ranks,
Deprived of terracotta balky army,
Deprived of lightwinged angel fighting gangs.
The Nature, bathed with kundalini flow,
Suffers alone as well as white grape vine
Somewhere in the valley high and low,
Alone as a black elm, and a red pine.