High Wind
--Jacques Dupin

We belong only to the mountain path
Winding in sunlight between sage and lichen
And hastening to darkness, mountain-top road,
To meet the constellations.
We have brought the edge of our cornfields
Close to the summits.
The grains burst in our hands.
The flames enter our bones.
Let men shoulder the dung and carry it up here.
Let wine and ryebread answer
The age of the volcano.
The fruits of the pride, the fruits of basalt
Will ripen under the blows
That make us visible.
Flesh will endure what eyes have suffered,
What wolves have not dreamed
Before descending to the sea.