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The dead ripen, my heart with them.
Pity me if the earth has the last mood.
It moves in the glass of the urn
A light of lake trees;
dark mutation devastates me, unknown saint:
green larvae groan at the scattered seed.
my face is spring gold.
A memory of darkness is born
At the bottom of walled wells, an echo of buried eardrums:
I am your suffered relic
Desire for your white hands
In the darkness of the flame: they knew of dust and death.
They were immediately of snow, so the words:
a little light, and then the fog and the trees,
and we made of air in the morning.
Another glass of perfume broke my hands,
when the light lit up the twilight
on the altar of silence
And with small crystal wings
I alone touched the threshold of this pain