Language Is The Only Homeland.

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence.

I Imagine The Earth When I Am No More: Women's Dresses, Dewy Lilacs, A Song In The Valley. Yet The Books Will Be There On The Shelves, Well Born, Derived From People, But Also From Radiance, Heights.

Men Will Clutch At Illusions When They Have Nothing Else To Hold To.

Under Various Names, I Have Praised Only You, Rivers! You Are Milk And Honey And Love And Death And Dance. From A Spring In Hidden Grottoes, Seeping From Mossy Rocks, Where A Goddess Pours Live Water From A Pitcher, At Clear Streams In The Meadow, Where Rills Murmur Underground, Your Race And My Race Begin, And Amazement, And Quick Passage.

Forget The Suffering You Caused Others. Forget The Suffering Others Caused You. The Waters Run And Run, Springs Sparkle And Are Done, You Walk The Earth You Are Forgetting. Sometimes You Hear A Distant Refrain. What Does It Mean, You Ask, Who Is Singing? A Childlike Sun Grows Warm. A Grandson And A Great-grandson Are Born. You Are Led By The Hand Once Again. The Names Of The Rivers Remain With You. How Endless Those Rivers Seem! Your Fields Lie Fallow, The City Towers Are Not As They Were. You Stand At The Threshold Mute.