Winter Garden Book

What can I do if the star chose me
to flash with lightning, and if the thorn
guided me to the pain of so many others.
What can I do if every moment
of my hand brought me closer to the rose?
Should I beg forgiveness for this winter,
the most distant, the most unattainable
for that man who used to seek out the chill
without anyone suffering because of his happiness?

- - - -

I want to say how between two seas
my whole being hangs
like a disheartened flag.
And for my blind beloved
I am ready to die
though my death will be blamed
on my deficient organism
or on the unnecessary sadness
deposited in clothes closets.
The truth is, time escapes
and with a widow's voice calls me
from the forgotten woods.

- - - -

Well, I never went back, I no longer suffer
from not going back, the sand willed it
and as part wave part channel,
syllable of salt, leech of water,
I, sovereign, slave of the coast
surrendered, chained to my rock.
There is no freedom anymore for us
who are fragments of the mystery,
there is no way out for returning
to oneself, to the stone of oneself,
no other stars remain except the sea.