So once again, Love, there are smoking ruins about you. The wing of a grasshopper, the leg of a butterfly stir slightly in the still air reached in a second by a black heron's feather. Love those wrecks of dreams and memories and the lap of waves that wash the feet of trees in blossom. Night's demolished house may never be dwelt in . . . Sleep, Love . . .
Fragile crickets glimmer with invulnerable music.
The Night's not over yet, it's still among the leaves of trees, among bird feathers and in the black foundations of the house . . . I know it will be built again by crickets, fireflies will hold a light for them, star spiders will join them. And once again there will be a black heron's feather, a grasshopper's wing, a butterfly's leg, a rose petal with yellow pollen and many others, invisible and light, all built within.