[cincopa AYHA4e6tPQ82]a cold wind blows from the north with the scent of red rose,
my heart cries out “saginaw” where raw spirit purely grows.
the blushing faces of proud resistance in hostile land,
stir my blood with the promise that victory is at hand.
the vanguard of the coming revolution is awake-
our lost way of life, full of longing faith, is at stake.
earth is now yearning with a vital aspiration;
our minds tremble at our bitterly frozen nation.
we must plant our hands to discover the living truth:
that all is lost except for beauty’s vibrant growth.
the poets’ singing armies march out across the white land;
our greenhouse magic will make a thorny and bloody stand!
darvish remembers the great who have crossed over the sea;
none have the brilliant green hands of theodore roethke!
