قصيدة Lament
,For the green turtle with her pulsing burden .in search of the breeding ground .For her eggs laid in their nest of sickness
,For the green turtle with her pulsing burden .in search of the breeding ground .For her eggs laid in their nest of sickness
No permanence is ours; we are a wave :That flows to fit whatever form it finds Through day or night, cathedral or the cave .We pass forever, craving form that binds