[lit-ideas] One more poema for the road

Olav H. Hauge: 
THE WEATHER COCK

The blacksmith molded him
with tail and comb,
high he rose,
the world was new,
and the winds many.
He was eager, 
tip-toed, screamed,
and brushed his feathers
for every gust of wind.
He stood tall in storms,
and streched his neck --
Until he stuck in rust
and remained gazing
obliquely northwise.
The draught most often
comes from there.

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