Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world?

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?