A dry tree with an empty honeycomb
Stands as a broken column by the tomb:
The classic anguish of a rigid fate,
The loveless will, superb and desolate.
This is the end of stoic pride and state:
Blind light, dry rock, a tree that does not bear.
Look, cranes still know their path through empty air
For them their world is neither soon nor late;
But ours is eaten hollow with despair.
