Well, that’s her, that’s how she is: Nature, and the spirit
refuses to know her.
There’s the meadow, hung with the scent of honey
and a whiff of swamps,
And the beginning wail of the wind,
like wolves in the distance,
and up over the fringes of pine
piebald clouds come galloping by.
I see shadows, appearances,
and anger takes me and I see
only the empty likeness, the barren variations
in the Creator’s seeds, spilled over the earth.
Oh Earth, stop your games!
Throw off your beggar’s rags and
stand, as you really are, a star
filled with fire, and burning!