the tired tree cannot lift itself from the
blood
and irresolution cannot raise its branches
false simplicity cannot speak the truth
and scourges itself in vain into a witness
of blood
the precious stones tempt with the dried-up
river-bed of oblivion
but the path to life passes through a
different desert
where alone with the sun I recall the world
and comrade Orestes who cannot speak for
sand
where alone with the woman I forget the sun
and its tired trees in the fiery cave
its scorched eyes that waken towards
evening
when the desert freezes in spring’s
mourning-band coat
when the invisible drama takes up its
position in the wings
and in the silent desert a sea of humanity
swells
To see the whole cycle, go to here
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