Names Are Neither Young Nor Old

Black crane descending from high blue skies,
How many darks? A rolling mist fills
The windows, obscuring ancient scenes.

Well, what’s really ancient anyway,
In terms of literature and song?
No poem’s been around nearly so long

As black cranes, blue skies, dark peaks, fine mists.
We name and are all of middle times,
Words older than you, younger than cranes.