It is spring. The Celtic festival was last night and then it rained.
i dreamt i heard thunder far away.
i had seen the beloved Rose.
Still moving silent s/he spoke to me of Nõ thing.

Am i only dreaming? Am i only dreaming on line?

Dearest Rose, you fill my heart with joy and still
i can Nõt speak with you for we do Nõt speak the same language.

Am i Nõ thing to you?

i only know you through the mythology of the Rose and Railway
and this poetic love old beyond any ken of ours.
Like the CPR phone this Love is antiquated and only Raven
could ever understand the deeper meaning of this significance.

i know Nõ thing except that moving like the beautiful semiotic ghost
that is here and then gone this passion for the Rose
is truly being in poetic ecstasy as Yeats
would write Nõ words to his beloved who is also Gon(n)e.

i write and compose for love of the Rose
down by the water in Nõ Tower where i live with angels
and the silent Rose speaks to me in meanings beyond words
while Nõ songs continue flowing like rivers to the sea.

i am writing music to the beloved Rose
as i compose Nõ essay & CBC is on the air waves
broadcasting from who knows where while

Railway Lines are slowly moving towards a full stop.

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