somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond |
any experience,your eyes have their silence: |
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, |
or which i cannot touch because they are too near |
your slightest look easily will unclose me |
though i have closed myself as fingers, |
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens |
(touching skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose |
or if your wish be to close me,i and |
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, |
as when the heart of this flower imagines |
the snow carefully everywhere descending; |
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals |
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture |
compels me with this colour of its countries, |
rendering death and forever with each breathing |
(i do not know what it is about you that closes |
and opens;only something in me understands |
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) |
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands |