The Singer
--W. S. Merwin
The song dripping from the eaves,
I know that throat
With no tongue,
Ignoring sun and moon,
That glance, that creature
Returning to its heart
By whose light the streams
Find each other.
Untameable,
Incorruptible,
In its own country
It has a gate to guard.
There arrived without choice
Take up water
And lay it on your eyes saying
Hail clarity
From now on nothing
Will appear the same
And pass through
Leaving your salt behind.
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