Rejoice, if orchard-filling wind should carry
Again the tidal rush of life to you:
Here where a dead tangle
Of memories falls through,
There was no garden but a reliquary.
That surge you hear, it is not wings that whir.
It is the stir of the eternal womb.
See how this solitary strip of earth
Turns from a tract into a crucible.
The wall is steep. Beyond it there is wrath.
Perhaps if you proceed, you
Will come upon the specter that redeems you.
Here stories come together, every deed
Negated by the endgames of hereafter.
Look for a flaw rotted in the net that fetters
You now. Break free! Jump out and burst
Forth! I prayed for this for you. The thirst
Will now go easier, the rust less bitter.