All in the bronzed evening, I think of you.
When I am strolling by Nepalese prayers
wheeled in constant rhythmic rotation,
I'm thinking of you, dusky,
in your glamour of black satin.
Will you walk in my garden?
This is an orchard, in tune with four seasons,
spun upon an axis and, within, black grapes;
in the landscape, one tree.
Its muse plucks strings of the planets,
echoes one Venus, one Mars, a gift of years
where tides ever salve, with sun and moon;
rise and fall in each cell of its tiny green leaves.
Nearby, a fountain tumbles over beds of water dragons;
soft music of pipes and rich hyacinths
sing of shaded pastures for shepherds
on lyre and harp in their solace
for squatting, aged acolytes
in this orchard of ripened, brown fruit
where winds rise, winds fall.
Lords and ladies dream of soulful birds
singing tuneless hymns, strange as dew
on dry lips of dry times; behold Byzantium
enamelled, empowered, embellished;
gulp food in pellets of artful time.
Lyrics, where dark is good, thrive in this orchard;
ultimate poetry blooms on this tree.
Where are you, my beloved; my country?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All in the Bitter Cold . . .
All in the bitter cold, I dream of you.
When I am all wrapped in furs this autumn morning
in constant motion among sparse trees,
I'm thinking of you, your seven day trip
in your spun blanket of loose mohair.
Will you walk across the mountain?
It is early morning, in tune with urgent September,
spun upon an axis and within, a dark ger*;
and, in the landscape, one leafless tree.
A self-appointed muse sings a cow song,
echoes her brother peering from a frozen sky
where dreams of cities are vain, bleak as the soft sun.
Dream on fair herder, Mongolia dreams with you.
Chinese gardeners, near, cramp you; drive you, beloved
across mountains, east, to me and greener fields.
You sing of shaded pastures for shepherds;
no lyre nor harp for solace. Nothing
but to walk in cold night air and yell to the sky.
In this caravan of wizened, leather-skinned riders,
winds rise, winds fall, but bareback and barefoot
'lords and ladies' dream of Genghis Khan,
sing tuneless battle-cries, strange as dew
upon dry lips these dry times; the Darhad beckons not;
bereft of sheep, goats and oxen, a disembowelled valley.
The hungry gulp food in pellets of artful time.
Lyrics, where dark seeds hope, do not perish.
Ultimate poetry feeds a proud race.
Where are you, my beloved; my country?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bronze trophy winner
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
The alliteration scattered throughout was not grating, or distracting. In fact it really added to the whole "tune" of the piece you were creating. I really liked it. 
Congratulations for this win.
