Birds, startled, sent swiftly lifting,
left, one would say, the old tree
with no top of its own; it felt free
now and so went back sifting
its saps - half to grow its green palms,
the other unsunned it let dwell.
The chorus of death he will swell
one day, thus from some still untold harms
he'll find underneath safe repair.
In porous cool sheets he will sink,
forever unsunned wines will drink,
forever life's breathing despair
brush past - and forever no smart,
for against her diaphonous veil
and against the storm-tossed boat's torn sail
green palms him forever will guard.