So you waited in that room,
The hours passing gently,
Ceiling speaking in a dialect of cracks,
Anemones breathing in their water,
Suggesting violet and red pleasure:  

That your solitude bear fruit, 
That you invent the freedom to be free,
That in sleep your heart might press
Like some small animal against your ribs,
Towards the comfort of another pulse,

Until, exhausted with the effort of colour
Against the unreasonable neutrality of sky,
No longer with the strength to close at dusk,
They let you understand this choice:

That you can cling to your petals
Or let them go, bright and moist,
To the table, or the earth,
And so, standing naked, call that death.

Then, without shoes or map, you set out
To find, in all the world, the flower
That passes most with grace.