A riotously beautiful design
Whose elements consist
Of eloquent spirals, fair and fine,
Embracing cranes and lions, who exist
Seemingly free, yet tangled in that living vine.

And in this chest shall be
Two cubic meters of space
Enough to hold all memory
Of you and me--
And this shall be the place
Where silence shall embrace
Our bodies, and obliterate the trace
Our souls made on the purity
Of night...
Now lock the chest, for we
Are dead, and lose the key!

The Pedlar

Hark, people, to the cry
Of this curious young magician-pedlar
Seeking a golden bowl!

He wanders through the city
Offering useful tin-ware
For all the ancient metal
You have left to rust
In the dim, dusty attic
Or mouldy cellar