My country deprived of fruit,
abandoned by leaves,
abandoned by the grapes
migrated prudently in wine.
My country betrayed by the birds
somersaulted in haste
in the wondering yet still clear sky,
forever content,
smelling of grasses
that pass away in the melting sun,
faithful spiders
weaving white webs
to bind up
the place of leaf, empty.
At night, baked stars
ferment your sky,
the wind flows the day
strong and bitter.
The hours measure your
walnuts falling
and light you
quinces decently.
