The Eighth Plague: the Locusts

The healed wound brings forth another, Sephorah,
As desire brings forth desire and pain brings forth pain,
Until the moment when the soul becomes a soulless object
And the body a soul and a breath together

The dancers of death are approaching,
My Sephorah.

A wind from the east has borne them in throngs,
An army of hungry moments, never satiated,
A plague that gobbles up everything that remains
Especially young sprigs, as yet to grow shoots
And everything else that is green and that nourishes the hope
Sown in your soul
And in your warm body,
My Sephorah.