|The palm at the end of the mind,
|Beyond the last thought, rises
|In the bronze decor.
|A gold-feathered bird
|Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
|Without human feeling, a foreign song.
|You know then that it is not the reason
|That makes us happy or unhappy.
|The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
|The palm stands on the edge of space.
|The wind moves slowly in the branches.
|The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.