there is peace at last in the east, in the dawning of the light-spinning sun,
though its sudden arrows fly from the stretched string
of the bowed horizon, though they strike in the feathered blue
breast of the flying, wind-winged sky, at last there is peace.
and in the west, where the spread of the dawn-arrow-drawn sky-blood
is the end of our story, our journey’s end, our day’s omega, our journey’s dying,
whose destiny flew from alpha, from the very first explosion of dawning
of light, from blast-off of time swift and radiant, in the west there is peace.
and catching it all from start to finish, bending it, shaping and stretching
the arc and volley, governing it, proclaiming it too as it happens,
in the north there is peace, in the meticulous conveying from all journeys’ sources
all journeys, zigzagged, fractured or slick like arrowshots, peace there is in the north.
and in the south, containing all forces that wrestle and suck and bite
and muscle their way through like moons, like mountains, like so many serpents
broad and powerful tides of feeling, shattering rapids of passion, maelstroms of mood,
plains of contemplation, pleasure and love, in the south there is peace.