On a high ridge, in a grove Of beeches, someone sits at sunset, and takes stock of his breath,

Which is the unfolding pages of his life. He is seperate from everything Because everything is seperate from him.

Wind embraces the trees, sun embraces With dying radiation the city that becomes White noise: sirens, engines, conversations'

Hum, music spilling from earphones, waists Of women tanning like clay shards, running feet. All this at a distance, no larger than that

At which they were before, and always. He now embraces a tree, rests his face Against the bark, the parchment for rains,

And listens to the sound of sap rising, Heart's drone, a woodpecker's drill, And murmurs of half forgotten lines:

"But thou, when thou prayest, enter into Thy closet." "My God, my God, Why hast Thou forsaken me?"

Ache. Seperation. Falling darkness.