|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|She lies there, and they say|
that over her a little wax candle
burns and doesn’t diminish
and her window looks out on a garden.
It’s strange, or was her heart born
to lie like that? The spindle
falls to the ground and is in a dream.
She lies, like the quiet entrance
to the dark garden, whence the light comes
and squeaks on the old floorboards.
Deep as the heart, deep,
like a deep faint, and deeper
in the depth of closed eyelids,
sleep, my dove, long and deep:
who knows what’s going on outside?
If this is a squeak and this is light,
slightly rising upwards,
the heart is born so that for many years
it can sleep and not watch the progress of the light
which bends branch after branch.
No one dreams this dream:
it is a house and a vineyard for itself,
and a road, along which the horseman
gallops to her; and this horseman is the dream.
“I ask for much, but hear me out
for this one thing in your great mercy,
then you can destroy me like a house
unfit for a homeless soul:
this will be what I want.
The rest is poor and hurtful.
Blow out my soul like a candle
before which darkness is not visible.”