Soil

The red veil of the sky descends
Among the warm vales of October
Where it reverently lends
A silent syllogism; moreover

The secret meadow is overflowing
With a honeycomb’s deepest delight
There are the darkness’ ambuscades growing
Pertaining a most transpontine flight

Await your littoral reflection
In a restless and rippling shield
For it will be your resurrection
In the brightness of the field

The field of righteous stars above,
The angels of the night who belove
The iniquity to which they belong