NOT HAMMERSTROKES, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.

FROM TRIUMPH to triumph they drove their chariot over the earth's
torn breast.
Round them Time's footsteps were muffled and slow, and birds'
songs lay gathered in the bosom of Night.
Drunken of red fire their torch spread its glare like an arrogant
lotus floating upon the blue with stars above as bees enchanted.
They boasted that the undying lights of the sky fed the flame they carried till it conquered the night and won homage from the sullen silence of the dark.
The bell sounds.
They start up to find they had slept dreaming of wealth and
pollution of power and the pillage of God's own temple.
The sun of the new day shines upon the night's surrender of love.
The torch lies shrouded in its ashes, and the sky rings with the
rejoicing voice,
'Victory to the earth! Victory to the heaven!
Victory to the all-conquering Light!'

THE NAME SHE called me by, like a flourishing jasmine, covered the whole seventeen years of our love. With its sound mingled the quiver of the light through the leaves, the scent of the grass in the rainy night, and the sad silence of the last hour of many an idle day.
        Not the work of God alone was he who answered to that name; she created him again for herself during those seventeen swift years.
        Other years were to follow, but their vagrant days, no longer gathered within the fold of that name uttered in her voice, stray and are scattered.
        They ask me, 'Who should fold us?'
        I find no answer and sit silent, and they cry to me while dispersing,
        'We seek a shepherdess!'
        Whom should they seek?
That they do not know. And like derelict evening clouds they drift in the trackless dark, and are lost and forgotten.