When the wren bone writhes down and the first dawn
furied by his stream swarms on the kingdom come of the
dazzler of heaven, and the splashed mothering maiden
who bore him with a bonfire in his mouth, and rocked
him like a storm. I shall run lost in sudden. Who are
you who is born in the next room so loud to my own? I
shall run lost in sudden, terror and shining from the
once hooded room crying in vain in the caldron of his
kiss, in the spin of the sun, in the spuming cyclone
of his wing, for I was lost who am crying at the man
drenched throne in the first fury of his stream, and
the lightnings of adoration back to black silence.
Melt and mourn for I was lost who have come to
doumbfounding haven. And the finding one and the high
noon of his wound blinds my cry.
(Dylan Thomas)
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