Snowlight, field-in and field — up to my father,
Suntears drip in the snow — up to my father.
Seventy years I walk among snowlight
To reach my father on time.

Is it the silence that cries in the snow, or is it
His red violin accompanying me among snowlight?
What a destiny in snow to feel:
The distance gets close, ever closer.

Shall I tell my father from what place
I bear my breaths in my arms? Can I find
Words to awaken his silence,
To open up his frozen eyes?

Snowlight, field-in and field-out. Mustn't neglect
To tell him: Your son is the same.
For it may be: my father is no more,
Arose long ago for his resurrection …

October 17, 1990