No justified outrage can compare
with the choirs of longing that bleed
their ethereal voices in solid lime.

Ephemeral epistles of going through
all that one man can master in a day
are read by the wind and the sighing surf.

The music of the churning blood feeds
on the movement such as it is offers
a rainy day when all green is deep.

All cannot be in vain, for ever lost
in the old archives of a burning child,
in the vast indifference of the passing.