Again Black Sun

From what imagined kingdom do you come, from what ornate tomb,
which takes you in at nightfall and casts you out at morning—
where are you from, black sun, who pour down black rains,
which toll for the world like the last bell of warning?

Is beast devouring beast? Are old branches colliding,
trunk striking trunk, wild root against root?
Does a falling star rip the sky open with fire?
Does earth war with heaven, the living with the dead?

What is that imagined kingdom, that tomb of gusting wind,
where a three-headed shade thrice-hungrily eyes us,
in this place of crime, of dry water without watershed,
in this black soil contained in a single human handbreadth?

What is this land that we bestow our name on,
copied from all the walls, all the darknesses and heights?
Black sun, who are black in winter and summer,
here both of us are covered in leaves of fallen sunlight.