mother poem

my soul is a dark ploughed field
passing through huddled and ugly walls
which keeps
why then, must we see?
death's nobility again
there is a city, builded by no hand
he speaks not well
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
in the sphere
in and of itself
doubtless i remember still
of sun nor stars
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies