Forty-two days in a row,
He gazed unwavering,
At the two chairs on bare ground anchored.
The pale shapes sat on the wood,
With skin pierced by splinters
And eyes scorched by the dust.
Fine words of passion swing from their mouths through the air,
Then burrow the earth, to dissipate deep beneath their feet.
Still, they wait breathless for a
Reflux, one the ground will not shed.
White vulture of the silver cliff, spread his wings.
Imminent death on the two chairs.
The rite had constantly failed.
Thus the vulture now plans his slow
Tedious descent through the clouds.
Awed he flies back, while his prey becomes its kin life resource.