No care have I whether
You rise to bloom in the springtime or in the autumn;

No care have I whether
You lay your grave in midsummer or in the darkest day.

No care I give
About whether you prefer the mayhem to the rhythm;

And no care do I have
About whether you emerged from stardust or Christian clay.

I would give whit, perhaps,
Had I been raised in a tribe;

But the sea foam, the slopes,
The wings of rivers carried me high.

What care should I give,
To your worships, or sacred grounds to which your knees find holy?

What care could I give that should matter?
It is your divine, not mine, solely.

When I look to Antares, its red flesh aflicker;
When I see its skin’s shone pulsing in the twilight;

No care have I
If you see me weep, by its shed, its beam, its unblinking eye;

No care have I
If you see me strain mouth open to gaze upon.

You have your gods,
I will have the smolder, the shimmer, the black sheet when all is done.

You wait for your deaths, your Ends;
I’ll be waiting for you, in the Heart, when all has just begun.