I

I want to be your reader and try to read the heavy
Sanskrit of your brows that lack so little,
One hair, no more, to become one, intertwined, unique.
I want to be the reader of your tears.

I want to read your silence, as the lining
Of trembling, silver leaves on a poplar,
When, below, an axe is lifted, glittering with treason.
I want to be the reader of your veins, your navel.

I want to be your reader, your only understander,
As a wolf who understands the dead howl
Of a she-wolf pierced by a bullet behind the evening
Veil of snow, amid warm pleasure.

II

Instead of paper — a leaf of thin, spring air. I want to write
Uninterrupted for a second, with teeth instead of pencil,
Like fire, fearing water more than fire.
I want to write one second, so an eternity remains.

I want to write for the beggar, the value of a coin.
I want to write for the sound, that should not work in vain.
I want to write for my childhood in a winged blizzard.
I want to write for the grass growing out of me, green.

I want to write for the silkworm, to spin out his silk.
I want to write for the suicide, to soothe his pain.
I want to write for the dying, run out of time to suffer.
I want to write for the mirror, like the hand of Leonardo.

1967