“And if there is no lining to the world?

If a thrush on a branch is not a sign,

But just a thrush on the branch?
If night and day Make no sense following each other?
And on this earth there is nothing except this earth?

Even if that is so, there will remain

A word wakened by lips that perish,

A tireless messenger who runs and runs

Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies,
And calls out, protests, screams.”