Van Gogh: Wheatfield and Starry Night

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If I hold the harvest, I will not go mad

to reap the vision of my wheat, just scythed

and waving in a field of yellow stalks

blown by a wind that raves inside my head,

scatters my thoughts, once in a neat sheaf tied,

now by the fury of a mental storm unleashed

into a sky of black crows’ wings that beat

blue air into a storm of rage and loss.

 

If I hold the harvest, I’ll see things as they are

with square bales squarely on the ground.

Not in this landscape where a frightened town

huddles beneath a cypress and a spire,

awed by a dozen haloes in the sky,

the vortex of  a wild careening star.

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