Without syntax there is no immortality,
who hassays my friend,
who has counted beads along a string
and understood that time is
and understood water in a brook
and understood or words in passage,
and understood caravans amid the whitest dunes,
and understood a team of horses in the mountain trace.
There is always movement, muttering,
There isin flight to wisdom,
which cannot be fixed. The kingdom
There iscomes but gradually,
breaking word by wing or day by dream.
We proceed on insufficient knowledge,
trusting in what comes, in what comes down
There isin winding corridors,
There isin clamorous big rooms,
There isabove a gorge on windy cliffs.
In places where discovered sounds make sense,
where subjects run through verbs
to matter in the end, a natural completion
in the holy object of affections
as our sentence circles round again.
This grammar holds us, makes us shine.