Only The Drum Is Confident, It Thinks

If Millions Are Born Millions Must Die.

Shiva... Is The Only Hunter That Will Ever Catch The Wild Swan; The Prey She Will Take Last Is The Wild White Swan Of The Beauty Of Things. Then She Will Be Alone, Pure Destruction, Achieved And Supreme, Empty Darkness Under The Death-tent Wings. She Will Build A Nest Of The Swan's Bones And Hatch A New Brood, Hang New Heavens With New Birds, All Be Renewed.

You Making Haste On Decay: Not Blameworthy; Life Is Good, Be It Stubbornly Long Or Suddenly A Mortal Splendor: Meteors Are Not Needed Less Than Mountains: Shine, Perishing Republic.

Nature Knows That People Are A Tide That Swells And In Time Will Ebb, And All Their Works Dissolve ... As For Us: We Must Uncenter Our Minds From Ourselves. We Must Unhumanize Our Views A Little And Become Confident As The Rock And Ocean That We Are Made From.

Well: The Day Is A Poem But Too Much Like One Of Jeffers's, Crusted With Blood And Barbaric Omens Painful To Excess, Inhuman As A Hawk's Cry.