Blind bow spirit,

                           my mother,

                                               Beatrice

 

Stars are tears falling with light inside.
In the moon, they say, is a sea of tears.
It is well known that the wind weeps.

How all things shatter, fall away, and break.
In this time of my great happiness I pass
And repass the gates of the Holy Ghost

The light is a grinder of knives jangling his bells
For seven in the morning. He is all the steeples
In the town calling for whatever this day must be new made.

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds