Turning on the blade of the sun
He feels no pain.
He counts it all as illusion.
Existence was a cobweb's whisper.
And now he is nothing, and knows it,
Darkening to extinction as he falls.
On his knees he is an avalanche still falling,
But is dead by the time
He bucks to the earth and rolls.
The echo of his cry
Lives half a moment after Achilles.
Then there is war, but not his war,
Though there are still clouds, and there is still smoke,
And there are still fish in the silver sea -
And the wind blows wide across
Enameled deserts ....
Somewhere, the shell of a turtle lies
Half-buried in the driftwood of the sun ....