That man is unaware
why so much spilt blood
as if the earth were only blood
and not water, tree,
song of treetops among crests.
He has never held in his hands
the blue chain of a thread over the grass.
He knows only the dark hollow of the room
that fits no more than his body
of abandonment and clay,
hard,
like iron.
A light is left for his eyes,
cracks for his fingers
and only space, space,
of his body
a solitary sword
yearning, without knowing it…