The light streams through, alas it is morning--
I cannot bear the truth in its meaning,
for I have lost my life's most precious thing:
and with it I am wrought until evening.
Bear the brunt of tragedian's telling:
I'd not want to be soul's recounted fling
with crown jewels, buried sages' grieving
over lost moments, proverbs still singing.
There is a moment when I contemplate--
all meaning fades in the trenches of France,
and all I love resounds, hollow as wine
no more in a chalice, bread on a plate.
My breakfast, ashes of Petite Pervenche:
wildflowers over the fields of its kind.
