Where the dead are buried with shells over their eyes
we're most disciplined, most weary.
When their statues come to life
the trees come to life.

We're most disciplined and weary
when love is an absence, an abstraction like insects
in trees come to life.
Nature is the calm of a chorus

when love is absent. Or an abstraction, like insects.
Or rather: birds sing the purest songs.
Nature is the calm of a chorus
made of our mother's wisdom and our father's tongue.

The birds sing pure songs
over the statues they soil and stones engraved.
Made of our mother's wisdom and father's tongue,
even the ground has a mood.

Over the statues they soil, and stones and graves,
the trees come to life.
Even the ground has a mood
where we, the dead, are buried with shells over our eyes.