The bird tills the soil,
The serpent sows,
Death, enriched,
Praises the harvest.
Pluto in the sky!
In ourselves the explosion.
There in myself only.
Mad and deaf, how could I be more so?
No more second self, nor changing face, no more season of flame and season of shadow!
The lepers come down with the slow snow.
Suddenly love, the equal of terror,
With a hand I had never seen, puts an end to the fire, straightens the sun, reshapes the beloved.
Nothing had heralded so strong an existence.
[WSM]