“let me be, my little one,

dont step on me, all starce!“

closer comes the horseman,

drumming on the plain.

the forge;

his eyes are closed.

the olive grove

come the gypsies, dream and bronze,

their heads held high,

their hooded eyes.

o owl calls,

calling, calling from its tree!

the sky

he hand.

the forge,

all ting, crying.

the air is veiwing all, views all.

t the viewing.