The hanging things

The man comes back from the holy river
Where he renounced a certain vegetable
The bitter one had always tasted terrible.
(Please leave behind here for your dead
All you consider dearest to your bosom,
Said a muttering priest of the ice river.)
We say return from a river purely bathed
After you have done your hanging thing.

The naked men would come from the hills
Their purity not yet tested in a natural sky.
(Here we write pure poetry in an azure sky
About waters that washed down corpses.)
The corpses had renounced all the worlds
But their sun went on to rise regardless.
The naked men have renounced their clothes
But now what to do with hanging things.

We have no tears enough to wet our eyes.
But we have genteel glycerine tears made
To stream down our eyes and keep them wet.
But what to do with the hanging things.

Plaster of Paris

Our sacred Goddess is now back again
With grass flowers already showing up
On the river across a dry sand bed.
Her pristine body forms in white mud.

The dark maker has sullied his hands
As they shine against her whiteness.
Her many arms are stubs in reverse
With weapons yet to be put in them.
A fierce tiger is in making in a corner.
But a demon is yet to be conceived.

In plaster of paris, good takes shape
Earlier to mold and shape than evil
With its several shades and tonalities
So difficult to create in white purity.