those who took care of the convent’s garden
left the dry trees
at god’s will ~
no more sunrise apples there
only a few empty nests abjured their shadow
on the straight road in the middle

as if the half paralyzed world
raised with all its might to sit up ~
the rest of the garden bore fruit

it had been hard to climb the stairs
on my knees
but as a good christian ~
how am i supposed to descend them my lord
the same way

More beautiful than this is impossible, I hear you say to me,
when the piano song leaves for afar from my ears.
I too cry, don't you see, it is not only you crying,
the silvery-green rain weaves for me a dress and the unskilled sun
seams it with untrodden grass.

My fingertips are only a shadow, I don't want
to die as long as I am alive,
there is a delta for everything,
for all the crying of those who have souls,
a sunrise for the wings of thin and long water birds,
who take flight below
closer to the river's reflection of the sky.

Today I love myself
and I am lonelier than yesterday and maybe
I am in love with all the lovers in this world,
I value their full moments after they take a share of everything,
form every mirror of this world
where they see themselves,
I can't, I simply cannot breathe any longer, because I am happy.

I am fifteen years old and my name is woman or maybe willow.

and then I gather in a trunk the holy clothes and the holy foods
and I left
somewhere not too far away,
because my road was written in ink,
after I delved in an eye for a piece of time, only at the edge of the eyelid.

today I still live within myself
and it is very hard for me to go away
where the soul is not a queen and the reason does not usurp it

it is too much sun and the moon cries with a scent of death