Day ferments. Eyes moisten with clouds.
Winds shake trees, and they laugh,
just as the playful racket of children
happens, because mothers cry out
and fathers reach to touch.



You have said what you are.
I am what I am.
Your actions in my head,
my head here in my hands
with something circling inside.
I have no name
for what circles
so perfectly.



Why all this grief and turning pale?
Don’t look at me.
Like any face reflecting other light,
the moon is a source of pain.



Someone who sees you and does not laugh out loud,
or fall silent, or explode in pieces,
is nothing more than the cement
and stone of his own prison.