Unhappy that reason stands
Without the feathers' feelings,
(The feathered without branches,
That human decor,
Of meaning, the end)
A golden palm rises slowly.

Then know the beyond:
The bird thought.
You make bronze.
The song in fire-fangled space
(The human in us,
The feathers in the wind,
Palm on the down)
Sings not in the mind.

The bird moves at the edge.
A bird's foreign palm sings.
It's shine is happy.
Hang it last.

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.

A golden feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feelings, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. It's feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers hang down.