I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.