XXVII: Catalyst
Where roses grow from stones, I used to fly
from crag to crag along a ruddy way
and looking up to see the powdered sky
where always dwelt the Sun who scorched the clay.
My chest was full of air that made one strong,
a kind I've never elsewhere known to breathe,
and mountains round you cheered your heart along
as, running, bones and muscles hot would seethe.
Bes…
