They will say it is feeling or mood, or the world, or the sound
The world makes on summer night while everyone sleeps—
Trees awash with wind, something like that, something
As imprecise. But don’t be fooled. The world
Is only a mirror returning its image. They will say
It is about particulars, making a case for this or that,
But it tries only to be itself. The low hills, the freshets,
The long dresses, even the lyre and dulcimer mean nothing.
The music it makes is mainly its own. So far
From what it might be, İt always turns into longing,
Spinning itself out for desire’s sake, desire for its own end,
one word after another erasing the world and leaving instead
The invisible lines of its calling: Out there, out there.