Oh, it's late
Oh, it’s late, always too late,
my boundless Beauty, for the moon
longing for you, if life
keeps on moving while staring
at you with grim eager eyes-
such stares are a burden.
Well then, stop it for good,
giving birth to children and grass,
may come the end to relentless white force
of searches at night,
and you, world, be but an eternal
wound where salt is forever cast-
since you’re so weary, God,
so very wild.