Or these insects pulsing near my skin,
The songs from a spiral tree.
II
Fury of wind, and no apparent wind,
A gust blowing the leaves suddenly upward,
A vine lashing in dry fury,
A man chasing a cat,
With a broken umbrella,
Crying softly.
It is difficult to say all things are well,
When the worst is about to arrive;
It is fatal to woo yourself,
However graceful the posture.
Loved heart, what can I say?
When I was a lark, I sang;
When I was a worm, I devoured.
The self says, I am;
The heart says, I am less;
The spirit says, you are nothing.
Mist alters the rocks. What can I tell my bones?
My desire's a wind trapped
in
a cave.
The spirit declares itself to these rocks.
I'm a small stone, loose in the shale.
Love is my wound.
The wide streams go their way,
The pond lapses back into a glassy silence.
The cause of God
in
me-has it gone?
Do these bones live? Can I live with these bones?
Mother, mother of us all, tell me where I am!
