*Reads Kazantzakis Once*

And when he again returned to his writing desk,
His mind blossomed and the thoughts clustered in the boughs
Like acorns in a wise old tree that had stood for generations,
Falling once they grew heavy on creaking neurons;
It gathered obsessions, birds’ nests in its high folds,
And every day the sky filled with the chirping of their squabbling songs.