The jackal has shed his skin--
or skinned himself.
His spirit, always dwindling,
now shudders, finally alive, in the brisk of the morning--
blossoming from the headless corpse.
The golden horizon
gleams in his hindsight
a thin line of beauty, of divinity;
separating the ground from the sky.
The sunrise approaches-- O!--
and he goes.
She will smile, someday, far away from this time.
And her hesitant sunshine will engulf the Earth,
left in the hands of his mirror image.