Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
And beyond, the same sound of bees
This gap in time, this season not their own,
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
And so I gaze avidly
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
The bees are buzzing,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
And beyond, the same sound of bees
This gap in time, this season not their own,
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
And so I gaze avidly
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
The bees are buzzing,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
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