ODE OF THE HUNTER OF EPHEMERAL SUNRISES

Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the uncanny winds of fate,
to all the prevalent, sampled winds?
      Is it this?
          And here I thought to rest?
Here I thought to cast anchor?
              And, forever, to fast
the wayward vessel?
—Fon, with the soul fully awake,
and in the saline air and the impellent, turbulent,
uncanny winds,
(with the subtle ear, with the keen nose —unanimous acolytes—)
to capture, to seize, to grasp
the science of the bygone sea?

Is it this is it this
my soul,
my thirsty heart, my thirsty spirit,
my roving heart, my roving spirit,
phrenetic, vagrant,
eager nomads,
—is it this,
is | it this then the avid life, master
of all earthly things and sideral things and of whatever the dream begat?

The avid life ajar as the piercing fast
eyes and as the ears —profound shells—
and in the pensive pate,
and the brow, —bell:

And the brow —bel— to harbor the aladineous spoils
of the piracy and the highhanded assaults:
The —blue— cutlasses for the escalade red of blood;
the —red— lips blue from the sea and sky;
the fingers bejeweled from caressing the maiden (in whose demy,
moist, downy, escented lairs
would unearth marvelous El Dorados
and of ebony and murex delightful wonders...)

Is it this, is it this,
thnisty soul of mine,
my heart, my spirit —fiery,
insaturable, inextinguishable, indomitable, eternal insurgents—,
is it this then the avid imperative life,
and master of all the earthly and sideral things, or of whatever it dreamed —meditative—
The pregnant bell
plethonic of indehiscent fantasies?

The avid life ajar as the piercing
fíx eyes sleepless and alert
and the ears, shells,
and the bnow, bell:
and the mouth, ursurped from the sea its salme breath;
and the hair, desirous of flight with the roving winds;
and the spirit, to the sea and the wind and the golden
sun and the nights of sloe—colored velvet,
—the liberty, the recondite music and the marine spell:
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of lips and dreams that the desire saturate
with uncanny spell!

Oh hunten of ephemeral sunrises,
of spirits asid sexes that the desire exalt
—briefly— and mitigate the boredom;
oh hunter of clouds, navigator of clouds,
follower of shadows, protector of oblivion,
tamer of winds!

Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
argonaut in oceans of songs,
and in seas of rhythms
argonaut, asid in passionate nights and sexual
Perfumes...!

Oh nights of sloe-colored velvet...!
Is it this then die avid life ajar
to all the miracles and all the wonders
and marvels?
And to all the daily, sampled harvest?
Or to whateven fate has in stock?
Or to all the prodigies and all the deceptive
Mirages, and aladineous delusions and enticements
and indehiscent fantasies?

Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my heart, my spirit, —never satiated!—,
my heart, my spirit, never satisfied!—,
is it this then the avid life of my dreams,
the avid life master
of all earthly and sideral things of whatever my cogitation ideated?

      Is it this?
          Is it this?
                And here I thought to rest?