By Ted Lawrence
The adored texts,
And the heart is filled,
Of which?
I cannot tell,
As cold eyes well,
A mind for sleep,
Turns to an old poem,
The swan dance,
Tells the story of a dream,
Round a midnight
But for so many midnights,
The plague grows,
So the adored,
Becomes the plague,
Although just,
In a sleepy mind.