In that vale of tears the mice in the cornfields, the rabbits
in their nether holes, all ran from the pain of man.
That pain was unfamiliar to them, shadowed cross of a human hand,
Internal register of the mark of Cain, escaping through hell’s gate –
But know the jungle was not wider than, its breadth was not unruled.
There was a birth, and a season in the Temple teaching,
a time long enough,
And then a death in the skull’s garden.
A three days death, before a forever leaping.
Now the mice peep through the sockets of the grave’s bone.
The rabbits hear the Gospel in Winter’s crypt.
The tears of men fall as the diamonds of the highest crystal.