My hands move like water over lily pads white and black—
above keys that agree with the notes of a mental track.
I'm pulled by a rhythm forward and back.
I lose myself in a euphonic lilac.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed
heavy laden.

Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.

Me siento como una piedra plantada en la costa del mar;
el agua me abraza,
el sol me besa,
escucho sin hablar,
y hablo sin certeza.