The season aiónios washes patiently
Over the whittle and worry
Of man’s movement; the tenor
Of Time; squeaky boots
Which scuttle and scurry in a hurry
Making the music of fledgling flutists
Who breathe too soon and too soon
Managing only to gasp out a husky whisper.
Ashes to ashes and mist to mist
They sound waves too short and hot
To travel very far and low
One Pop! One isolated movement
Dead and gone like a shot
Like a shot without an echo.