Returning, penitent, passionately reticent, they sink
Lucently again to their rich mould earth
Where gone habits stand by, lie, promising
To go, already gone molding half-life
Images, returning burned by day, by light
Of day and night, and having passed,
Return themselves to light again, breaking ground
To mean forms, not mute like hands wringing
Hope from gathered fingers but not mute like hands
Trained by solitude to knead regret stone-fisted,
Moaning the scorched-night earth regret emerges from,
To which it falls again when needed
No longer as habit, sinking now, but image, rising
Now silent, aspirant, returning rich as once
This habit was and ought, but wrought now, is no more.