It is the fall, the eternal fall of water,
of rock, of wounded birds, and the wounded heart,
the waterfall of freedom. Angels fall
like lovers from the azure, separate,
and die by that same death that ends us all.

Falling ten million years, we fling ourselves
again into the inviting arms of time;
our nuptial flight must end again in death
that serves for freedom time and time again
while the hard labouring mystic holds his breath.

Words by Kathleen Raine.