At Kelvin zero / My music slows un poco / Icy minims burst.
Once it was a jar / All Etruscan arrogance / See this cracked piss-pot
Herald angels sing : Glory to our King´s nappies May they melt this cold
This jar of water As if poor Keats´s urn Will not split across
Happy the camel Under Arabian sky No frost underfoot
From cracked clay that jug Sub-zero temperature Cracks its beauty now
Our unmild Buddha: ” Look ! That crack on the jug´s lip ! ” Cold terra cotta
Frozen electrons Challenge their Cold Creator: ” Heat us up! Kiss us! ”
John Keats , shivering, Turned, touched, stroked his Grecian Urn Ice-drops his poor tears
My tones are cold grapes Frosty in this Polar air I embrace myself
Van Gogh´s cold fingers Daubed in his cold water-jug ” Will Spring come, O Herr ? ”
dúisithe ag oighear an próca uisce scoilte aige ( Gabriel Rosenstock )