Low hills carved into terraces
neglected now, wild grass. Trans-
sylvanian air, a music
as of saddened royalty

Who became migrant workers, drivers
of long-distance lorries
with the same patience, the same
gateway, sun and rope

Moon and string, we forget slowly
the star's aim on the bare hills,
remember in a different script
the answer of the dull beast
snorting behind the gate.

Consequence at world pace,
slower than the death birds.