I do not love my country. Its abstract splendor is beyond my grasp. The elements of the night Beneath this small, dry empire summer has whittled down, faith lies toppled all those tall, farsighted days. In the last valley destructiveness is glutted on conquered cities, affronted by the ash.
Rain extinguishes the woodland lit by lightning.
Night passes on its venom Words crack against the air. Nothing is restored, nothing gives back that glowing green to the scorched fields. Neither will the water, in its exile from the fountain, succeed its own sweet rise, nor the bones of the eagle fly through its wings again. And the fire's repose means assuming a form out of its full powers of transformation. Fire of the air, the fire's solitude, igniting the air made of fire.