who will teach my non-being how to be, without striving to be?
How can the water endure it?
What sky have the stones dreamed?
Immobile, until those migrations
delay at their apogee and fly on their arrows toward the cold archipelago.
Unmoved in its secretive life,
like an underground city, so the days may glide down like ungraspable dew: nothing fails, or shall perish, until we be born again, until all that lay plundered be restored with the tread of the springtime we buried� the unceasingly stilled, as it lifts itself out of non-being, even now, to be flowering bough.