It is finished.

(As for man, his days are as grass: as a
flower of the field, so he flourisheth.)

My flesh is drawn by the moon - there is a
liquid that moves along the tubes and
cisterns of my body, rushing with the
sound of footsteps, warmed by the sun,
colouring my extremities where they are
exposed and naked.
I move by the moon, and I follow the 
sun's course; I am a circle that turns to
the wide horizon, and my eyes are blinded;
I am still and rooted, I am quick and
quivering, but I bear no figs.
I bear no figs, and I will be burned with
fire - I will be cut down, felled by
the thrust of the passing of moments.

Let the floods clap their hands:
let the hills be joyful together.
I bear no figs, and my days are consumed
like smoke, and my bones are burned in
the hearth of your leaving.
The moon and the sun weave silent
over the smoke of this
sacrifice.  Selah.

( to the contents page.)