What can speak the words of the
spirit, in a time without none?
When the only listening proceeds
from the dear and fragile –
The presence of others, which only
lives for a small moment,
For its being is finite.
Poetry is not language but it is life
In it, I know that the manifest and
variegated appearance of things
Is a gift, and only that.
No one can speak the language
of the spirit without knowing this:
That it is not words but music,
That signals, cries, and loves
What is in truth nothing.