If you have eyes, through day you'll see night,
not the one lit up by that inflamed disk.
In vain two swallows are bursting to get out,
darting at the window with a faint chirp.
One cannot puncture with a sharp-angled wing
that transparent, but sturdy membrane over there,
nor can one, with a bird's tiny wing or
a captive heart, flit there.
Till all the blood has come out of your pores,
Till you have cried out your earthly eyes,
You won't become spirit. Wait, looking point blank,
As the light splashes without covering the night.