WAITING WITH LOWERED VOICE

Waiting with lowered voice

For something terrible and simple

—Like the harvest of the lightning

Or the crumbling of the plaster...

It is the nearness of the intact sky

That emaciates the flocks,

This jug ot burning rock,

And the revival of smells from the flowerless mountain...

Summits of wind and famine,

Insipid motet, fury of returns,

I dread the ruin which is due to me

Less than this immunity

That fetters me in its rays.

Promised land, land that crumbles,

Despite the columns, despite the drum.