The doors through which love leaves, the doors
to love are so small,
the doors to the overgrown orchard,
the gates,
covered in scrawled prayers, little gates
knocking at the gilded gates of heaven,
milking the fear of death
with surprised, eternally young eyes —
a little peep hole
a window to gaze out of in my old age,
to watch everything that is still moving,
a window with a pelargonium

Translated by Laima Vincë