In this place where the people called men are all in anguish
to kick this dark earth and rise from it
and that without effort—this was first understood
by the young poets of a foolish land.
Seeing the helicopter rise more lightly than a balloon
the ones who could show surprise are those who know sorrow,
but the ones who show no surprise at seeing this are also those who know sorrow.
Too long they have forgotten their own speech
having spoken other's words
add this barely speaking with stammering voice.
There was a season of sorrow consuming sorrow
Even younger than such a youthful season is
the eternal physiology of the helicopter.
After July, 1950, the helicopter
first appeared on the crowded mountain ranges of this land
It had, of course, come into being before this
but it arrived here faster than the jet or cargo plane.
However since Lindbergh did not fly
across the Atlantic in a helicopter,
now we cannot help but feel the irony of the Orient in the body of this machine.
Its sorrowful form as it flies, tracing a perpendicular of grief
we see it not only from our little gardens
but even in the reflection down in the jars
we have this sort of simple fascination
imagining one could see all this looking down from the helicopter
"Helicopter! You are a sorrowful creature."
Upon this endless time with more than its share of despair
with no mountains, no sea, no mud, no quagmire, and no regrets,
emaciated body, transparent frame, even cells and nerves and eyeballs
all exposed to view as you move and descend,
carrying your resolute purpose lightly as a mist
revealing yourself to others before you look at them
you have dignity and high purpose.
Your ancestors, together with ours
joined hands and together in the primeval animal kingdom
lived by the fair archetype of the spirit of freedom
which you knew before we discovered and codified it,
and as you hand down the last fragments of freedom
you are weeping as you keep the silence of humility.