The spirit's artery snapped, God's film snapped—
When I grope for the darkness of lips,
taking the hand of inspirited ether
that still dreams with the withered timber,
A honeysuckle reaches out
spreading fragrance on rock,
killing a forest
A hand reaches for a bird's neck and for the twilight of gems—
In this dreaming hand
lies Smyrna's dream—
A rosebush flaring.