Beneath this small, dry empire summer has whittled down,
faith lies toppledall those tall, farsighted days.
In the last valley
destructiveness is glutted
on conquered cities, affronted by the ash.
the woodland lit by lightning.
Night passes on its venom
Words crack against the air.
Nothing is restored, nothing gives back
that glowing green to the scorched fields.
Neither will the water, in its exile
from the fountain, succeed its own sweet
rise, nor the bones of the eagle fly
through its wings again.