|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|The farewell wind approaches and judges.|
Itʼs doubtful whether it sees and scarcely hears.
Like people who are illiterate
we repeat alien words:
about rest for the living and the dead,
from where anger and the storm runs off
and about suffering, unopened eyes,
about profanation, closed eyes.
And about all which we cannot fulfil
which we try not be even in our dreams.
“Itʼs great” say to me, “that we wonʼt remember
and that we cannot forget you”.
Itʼs great to love this living blessing,
gold, smelling of rain.
If you are pain, then this too is with you,
if you are a garden, where we expect no happiness.