Pristine is the morning air
in the wake of the chastisement of heavy rain.
All shriveled, the litter of empty streets
is shrunk with mourning
and thoroughly drenched with muddy tears.

Pristine is the evening breeze
that has parted with the odors of engines
and human fatigue,
reclining on silver-tinted leaves,
exhaling the fragrance of flowers
that lie dormant beneath.

Pristine is the breath I now bequeath,
on scattered words that boast no antecedents,
on caverns engraved in every creed,
on ancient stone embracing another millennium,
on stagnant pleas,
on tarrying peace.