It breaks the hills, cracking the riches wide,runs through electric wires;it comes, warning the night,running among these rigid hills,a single force to waken our eyes.

All power is saved, having no end.     Risesin the green season, in the sudden seasonthe white the budded                                             and the lost.

But planted in our flesh these valleys stand,everywhere we begin to know the illness,are forced up, and our times confirm us all.

Sloping as gracefully as thighs, the foothills narrow to this, clouds over every townfinally indicate the stored destruction.