Is this world seemingly silent after a storm?
Is the empty shore so languid and bare?
Is not the fumbling measure of life
shaking and in a dream sleep
within the shadows of an unspent edge of a rock?
Who is there in the scorching sun to live?
Who in the shadows breathes respite?
There are no moving shapes punctuating the crashing waves
The living sounds all lost in a gurgling?
Yet from the sky unknown limitless unseasoned blue
Is a sedge of cranes.
They never stopped, they never will,
but next year same time they will cross again.
I wonder if they ever looked how
Bare is the shore of Truth.