writing poetry

up from the south at break of day
master of human destinies am i
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
in your arms was still delight
if the red slayer think he slays
storm
hang no wreath
when night drifts along the streets of the city
out of the window a sea of green trees
melancholy, blue it was
backward, turn backward
one with you
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale