There is the
lark, you said. And for the first time
I saw, far up in the fast darkening air,
The small lonely singer beating its wings
Against the pull of the old and evil earth.
It is too late, I
said, to praise its song ....
(because they bring our deaths
And thus another cycle of this bird's praises)
The beasts with guts of metal groaning on the line
Or in the higher sky solemnly muttering.
© by the Estate of Hyam Plutzik. All rights reserved.