What shall I do with so much memory?
Where shall I hide it,
Infuse it in veins —
For my grandchild to find it?
Perhaps, deep in the earth,
In its core?

Rain, rain,
Don't slice your veins with the sun,
Lest the grapes in the vineyard
Flee in fear.

Perhaps instill it in a mirror?
Perhaps, save it with birds?
Birds, soaring letters,
Take it!
My memory is yours.

Maybe a good-hearted bird
Will sing it into a hut —
And a man will make a blessing
Over singing fire.

1966