The stars report a vast consequence
our human moment joins.
Or is it all the dark
around them speaking?
And if someone who listened for years
one night hears Home,
what is he to do with the story
his bones hum to him
about the dust?
Let him go in search of the hiding place
of the dew, where the hours are born.
Let him uncover whose heart
beats behind the falling leaves.
And as for the one who hears Remember,
well, I began to sing
the words my father sang
when he knelt to teach me
how to tie my shoes:
Crossing over, crossing under, little bird,
build your bridge by nightfall.
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