A stream from the peak like an avalanche
falls with silence to stand in glorious stance.
A foal in starry forests rustles mute
leaf in red gardens, unsure of his route.
I, at two coppice gates stand, the stream whose
journey came to the red garden to choose
the rich, infinite soil of other shores
or the land of my blood and endless doors.
I have stood in statue expectation,
waiting for avian heralds in the sun
to guide my feet to righteous destiny.
Alas, I think that path has fled from me.
Hark, now! Swift comes the herald to a new
path of stone, hid by vines, travelled by few.