Go, drinking fields and cities,
Transformed to a great deer of water,
Be the ocean of bright dawns,
The kingfisher's nest on the waves.

That I might go on hoping for you, deadened,
A done reed, in the high solitudes,
Wounded by the air, and needing
Your voice, alone among the storms.

Leave me to write, frail cold reed,
My name in the running water,
Let the wind cry, solitary, river.

My name dissolved now in your snows,
Turn again to your upland slopes,
Deer of spray, king of the mountain stream.