There is no man, no woman
lost here
who could
change you
There is no song more beautiful
or a hymn more plain
beneath this sky
What do the works of one man weigh?
What do you gain from the world
when you knock a little boy off his feet
with your stone-hard fist?
Ripe corn on the verge of life
I chant quietly
a hymn deathly solemn
Who can
count these days?
They are, after all,
too many
The playing of too many a child
in the sandbox
means to separate sand from ice.