We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.

And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.