Like imprisoned hieratic bards,

the poplars of blood have gone to sleep.

On the knolls the flocks of Bethlehem

ruminate arias of grass in the setting sun.

The ancient shepherd, shaken by

the last martyrdoms of light,

has caught in his paschal eyes

a chaste cluster of brilliant stars.

Wrought by orphanhood he descends the instant

with rumors of burial, to the praying field;

the cattle-bells are autumn-cast with shadow.

The blue survives warped in iron,

and in it, eyeballs shrouded,

a dog traces its bucolic howl.