– in the yellow flower of the year
over a thousand distant roads
shines old
quenching tear –
high high along crisp stems
droplets clinging
run towards the forgetfulness of the sea –
when every last tear has run,
the earth will arise from the bath
with the surge of fear over its shoulder
like a slaughtered stupidity –
when the pot of the unnecessary is full,
the earth will be without memory,
and with the essential
like a volcanic eruption on its head –
in a remote valley
a white stone shall lie
like a sun –
and from that a 17-year-old
shall beg the droplet of reality –