Now in a world which has known its ending,
Where skies were darkened with falling hawks,
Where fields are blackened with withered corn,
Who is the archer intently sending
His accurate shafts against hoar rocks?
No fluent creature will be born
In this pale world absolved from dreaming;
Superfluous is his bright bow’s gleaming
Where the heart is past its breaking.
But red with his blood are the archer’s quarries,
Red with his blood above the hill,
For where his arrow strikes there is
This extending him, this skill,
This furious anger of one with breath
Left alone in a world of death.
Archer in a World
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