Sword-belted, gleaming above the farm;
A star man hunting wild stars,
Noticeable most when the moon is hidden.
When people like us look up to the stars,
They cannot tell what being is down
At their feet, what gives or is given,
What suffering shape may crouch there.
The Hunter drops his eyes to follow the tracks
Of his dogs, who follow the hare. But we,
Preferring - rightly - to know the stars do not
See the shape that dies to feed us.
