Surely there is a mine for gold,
And a wood where trees fall like cud­gels.
They probe with picks of bone, they haul up bur­dens in sacks,
They bring frag­ments of the fore­gone to light.
Away from human habi­ta­tion
They sway sus­pended,  hands behind their backs.

The falcon’s eye has seen and passed over.
The rulers of this world have heard rumours.
Death takes things as they come.

They claw the earth in search of crusts,
The earth with fire under­neath it
That churns, and churns, and never breaks its bounds.