The one who loses patience with us
is the one who stays and protects.
You are the iris and the rose
and the fall that ruins flowers.
Sing the spring and admit that you are also thorn. Everything that exists is talking and not talking at once. Everything looks at and with and through you.
The nightingale bestows a definite desire. There is the ocean and there is a bridge. There are these two or three numbered days.
I am none of those. I am more the way you are, flowers opening and the soul in silence, but something in you will not let me keep quiet.
I try to hide like a clever quarry, but you hunt the hunter and the prey. You purify by staying apart.
The fragrance of everyone’s laughter
is your work and your gift to us, as well as the weeping.