Something was pouring out. Filling the field

    and making it vacant. A wind blowing them

    sideways as they moved forward. The crying

    as before. Suddenly I understood why they left

    the empty bowls on the table， in the empty hut

    overlooking the sea. And knew the meaning

    of the heron breaking branches， spreading

    his wings in order to rise up out of the dark

    woods into the night sky. I understood about

    the lovers and the river in January.

    Heard the crying out as a battlement，

    of greatness， and then the dying began.

    The height of passion. Saw the breaking

    of the moon and the shattering of the sun.

    Believed in the miracle because of the half heard

    and the other half seen. How they ranged

    and how they fed. Let loose their cries.

    One could call it the agony in the garden，

    or the paradise， depending on whether

    the joy was at the beginning， or after