Chapter IV

Naked is the earth
and the soul howls to the wan horizon
like a hungry she-wolf.
What do you seek,
poet, in the sunset?
Bitter going, for the path
weighs one down, the frozen wind,
and the coming night and the bitterness
of distance.... On the white path
the trunks of frustrate trees show black,
on the distant mountains
there is gold and blood. The sun dies....

What do you seek,
poet, in the sunset?