And are we ever driven from bed in anguish
by cries in the garden or beyond,
somewhere in the world?
Do men have to live like rust,
eating away the sustaining structure,
leaving behind them only the stains of dried blood?
Could we not listen to the water,
singing in the tongue our mother taught us
before we learned the gabble of the small screen?
Do we no longer see sunlight and shadow,
the dappled pattern of leaves and clouds
and the coat of the creeping cat?
There is a sky above that changes with the seasons,
flocking birds and beneath,
gently swaying treetops.
Sun shines, rain falls,
nests fill and empty with gentle wing-flutter,
and rocks sleep beneath lizards and moss;
there is music in the moonlight,
drifting among the night shadows
on owl wings and water babble.
Perhaps the red ship of storm
will pass us by.