How slow, how slowly go
The white-gray ragged, ragged clouds
Across the smooth blue sky.
And now the sun has caught a ripped edge
And made a fork of yellow gold!
A short curved bloody knife comes after,
But where is the fatted calf?
Ah, there it is–long and lean, more like a wolf.
My eyes have swallowed the tale of the morning sky,
And I am full for a while
As the white-gray ragged clouds
How slow, how slowly go.