Morning opened the pulverizing tempest of its eyes
To find window-less longhouses asleep by their watchful fires
The rings of light have not yet ravened down
The cock alarmed, pigs’ squeaked and gongs howled what pain to drown
Tearing open the blankets of June amidst the lake of darkness
I was in dialogue with the yawning tenderness
The chilling hand left its tearful message on the bamboo floors
As rain frolicking through the most exalted shores on morning chores
