He who had a scythe
came at a time of Fall.
We stooped at our waists; our minds
were too ripened, and mellow.
With no inquiry and slashes swift
He freed our sky stones too heavy to withhold.
To where the blemished stones go?---
that the minor cauldrons stewed in pain.
We could not have known
or cared. We were but chaff and straw
He left for next harvest.