In a rather obscure, vatic language, thunder
Crossed the lake, eastward from the wilderness,
And a body alone in bed could smell the sudden
Woodsmoke, might as well have been brimstone.
A wet early summer had come to the wedding
Of ashes at last. Wind carried it. Lightning
Started it, although nothing’s ever started,
Nor finished, never. When Beethoven grew deaf
His internal ears were liberated. They burned
With the late string quartets, like nothing else, never.
Now the woods around the nearly pristine lake
Were burning. The moshlim sang the end
Of everything near and dear was near, but
The wilderness, as the ancestors who named it knew,
Became itself by dying in fires and was renewed.
No comments:
Post a Comment