|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|Now in warm gold, in broad bindings,|
and then in expensive rags:
you are the nurse of eyes, like a swallow to the winged ones,
and with a broken wing.
There where you are and there is no shelter,
where everything has broken off already,
you are the nurse of eyes, that have forgotten about maiming,
flying till the tears come.