How do I then answer you, my heart dumb
and dull as my tongue;

as memories crowd and force their way
like people on market day.

Why not leave buried in sand
all I murdered with that Egyptian?

I grasp rough wool in my hands,
not the heart of man;

and live as one fled—an illusion—
to return would be an intrusion.

Did you rescue me from that tangle of reeds
to drown in darker seas?

But could I ever compromise
with the miracle before my eyes?

You preserving the tree
even as you seize it to uproot me.