Cantilena, George Freek

Tonight the moon makes me feel fat.
And the season has no remorse.
No remorse in the sky
for a man or a woman or a cat.

That tree is a block of granite
at the end of my mind…
Granite with some obscure writing
inscribed on it.

A dog howls with no human sound,
a sound no human makes.
And bones rise up, bones
buried for eons deep in the ground.

Oh, what is bad? What is good?
We know nothing of forest
and flower, mountain and stone,
from where they’ve come, to where they’ve gone.

But I do know this.
When wrens sing, they sing alone.