The lion was dying
and the antelope,
who suggested peace
to her new friend,
did not know why.
“Peace is beautiful,”
said the grass—
the grass—
as beautiful, in its collectivity,
as any woman—
and the antelope’s child,
in love, and unable to eat,
was also dying.
War had ended
and the beautiful grass
could not understand
why the antelope suffered.
“You don’t need to eat me,”
sang the grass. “I will not;
I love you,” said the sweet
antelope’s child, dying. Peace
had won, and death and its peace
had spread to every valley.
War and God no longer existed
on the plain. The last lion
saw the beautiful antelope
when he closed his eyes at last,
too weak to proclaim his love.
We met because you were free;
the love that injured us
produced all the poems
which preceded this one.
Call it fate;
whatever is inarticulate
is God. To be free,
you made war on the child
in your womb. That’s what
happens in the wild—
there was never a child.
You went to war so you
could be free—
and you could meet me.
No wonder our love was strange.