Where we first sinned was probably upstairs
And not for long; but now the color changes,
The detriment of summer. I shall miss
All of the sounds that naturally make
Our natures sweet. And bitter were the days
Succeeding, red and orange, perhaps, but not
How we had planned our progeny. We went
Our solitary way, best by ourselves.
We’d hoped for Nod or Canaan, but we found
Naked trees and a furred rapacity
Of gathering and storing, and a scent
Like Nuits d’Hiver was everywhere at once.
What did we have? What did we have to lose?
Those were our final steppes. We took them all.
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