I transfer this tale of what I have done
Like a pit tells the story of the plum
That is shaken by winds and falls early.
Light reflects from a heron's wings and then
It dies. It knew only the ash-white sun.
The great lords shake hands with graven statues.
Babylon is no whore, it is a dream
Often dreamed by bearded and savage kings
Who own harems but rule from lonely thrones.
Without being given this history,
You may have seen a pit beneath some branch
And thought it was a stone- leave it alone.
Leave it alone. Now, what was being said?
Ah, yes. We are either trees or food for the birds.
The storm will decide if no one else is hungry.
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