I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.