The woods are burning. Fields
are burning. Beautiful red ruins
of dusk blazing into blossom.
What do I know of death, of dying?
Light has closed her drowsy eyes,
climbs into the black-veined branches,
quickly dies. A golden-shadowed moon
stirring up the speckled moth, graceful
multitudes of crane fly, midnight flowers.
Night takes them all into its mouth
without a conscience, swallows.