See – all the harpies have flown.
So let your leaves unfurl themselves.
I shall not pluck a blood-welling thorn;
no, nor engrave a wounding name.
The bruised earth yields.
As sap beads to resin, so crystals of grief
burn their incense and are gone.
So unbunch your hands from dark troublous knots.
Cut down the shadow that hangs from your branches.