Long now you’ve lounged in earth—futile,
useless—but at last your hour’s struck:
you stirred from sleep, roused
your head’s dead yoke, and aligned a crooked

spine, its vertebrae cracking like lightning—
a vast array of thunder’s fearsome
peals, which lead now to the hail stones
these high heavens shed and shudder,

each transforms and tapers on the fly
into droplets thirsting to germinate, akin
to seeds, heedless of how
they’ll sprout, whether as emerald herb,

hazel woods, or some other verdant
shoot… You’ve lounged in earth so long now—
futile, useless—but here it is, the moment
you faithfully tarried till:

for it is better to oversleep
your own short age, disdaining all
earthly vanity, than to grope dimly down
its crenellated top, stumbling across

with hesitant steps and carefree
laughter, preaching “All’s well! Superb!”
That’s why those who don’t know
your true name call you a river of words.