Whenever, like two people turned to stone, we sit down to a meal together or meet at the door at night because each of us has just remembered about locking up, I feel our sadness is an arch, a great bow extending from, one end of the world to the other—which is: from Hanna to me—and in the drawn bow an arrow aimed straight at the heart of the unmoving sky.

Under the olive trees the light pours out its seeds, 
poppies appear and begin to flicker, 
burning the oil that feeds their fire; 

Whatever comes to pass: the devastated world
sinks back into twilight,
the forest offers it a sleeping potion,