I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

Love is a clash of lightnings

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.