At twilight the swifts have no power,
to hold back that pale blue coolness.
It bursts from throats, a clamour
an outpour that cant grow less.
The swifts have no way, high
up there, overhead, of restraining
their clarion cries: O, triumph,
see, see, how the earths receding!
Like steam from a boiling kettle,
the furious flow rushes by
See, see no space for the earth
between the ravine and the sky.
