shivering in the summer

here am I, 

said he, 

shivering in the summer, 

sheltered from the resuscitating sun 

by the deceptive leaves of fruitless trees, which was himself, though he knew it not.

allow yourself to be warmed by the sun, I cry, 

and him unheeding. 

here am I, 

said he, 

trying to recuperate from the painful, bitter fruit

as dark as night 

which clutch at my feet and make me stumble.

I write poems of this man 

which is myself

and try to guide him to the land of golden light, 

where every word is a poem, 

resplendent in beauty 

only because the right word is chosen. 

in the choosing lies an eternity of genuine peace - 

finally, finally - 

lasting peace