Under a mountain or under
a lake, drifting with bull rushes,
or waiting like ore in black silence:
this is some kind of beneath.
I mostly know what the still small
Voice says, I close eyes and doors
and It speaks but now
It hangs voiceless as unmapped
catacombs. There is always some
terrible beauty to dense,
I wait, and that is more powerful
than stone, cavern, mountain, lake;
it should surface
but stays speechless.
My love says things snow drifts say,
it says what a field lying fallow
is too mute to voice.
It says there is nothing more I can do.
There is always some terrible beauty
more powerful than stone,
cavern, mountain and lake.
This is some kind of beneath.