By the nocturnal rose
stands our earthly faith,
voluptuously gentle, rising in the warm wind,
its rich wildness, opening boldly.

With no transmission of graciousness,
it, in its core being,
contains no less love,
no less primordial curiosity,
with which we fearlessly stand—grander
than the terror of not knowing,
and of being afraid to understand.

Faith, with its sister doubt,
never ceases to stem from brutal concrete,
just as early spring flowers rise,
demolishing all machinery and order,
sustaining our trust in love,
of which nature is composed.

And, reaching beyond catatonic despair,
it holds our heart with warm hands
when it is destined to produce its last beats.