Fifty pigeons have flown away from the belfry.
Mountains munch the thunder, wounding their toothless gums.
Wind is frailly sprouting up from the sand of the spring.

Every battle’s worth loving when named,
every forehead remembers its own broken wall,
every king is arisen from a bone of the master,
every god is buried down in the darkness, deep in the death’s-head.
Words are pouring into the well of a hornbook,
just as whole as that.
Grains of ash on the winkers, trembling;
withered seed of the morning is thrown into the pile to burn.

On the seashore, the black horse is racing alive,
full of ripe Achaeans’ shadows budging inside his belly.