6.8

6.8 And if to die is to move from the ugliness of this world then let it be; should I welcome spring; turn summer down, and fall from my hands; the serpent's slow unwinding, agate eyes, and blue bushes now in flower; spice smells undo the lament of tree leaves on the cement. But if this cannot be then let it die with the singing of one lone bird, at twilight crook the hand, crawl over, cover us with leaves.