Everything runs out when the raindrop
Reaches the ground:
The glistening, the mirror-image and the stubbornly
Descending twilight.

What remains is damp dust, hard mud;
A world which is gazed at
By mountain lakes that are scattered,
Are twinkling and forgotten.

And then the face of Earth begins to cry,
Though it will also dry up,
And the sun will come out: there'll be
Air shimmering above thirsty fields.

And then the seed will remember the grace
And start up with its roots
Towards the rotting bread
Of the corpses.

We shall be lying there and the tree
Which grew out of a tiny cell,
Will write up on the sky the sign of mercy
With a burnable calligraphy.