Sometimes we pleasantly suffer
out of the roads
where the freezing winds
and golden marrow, are waiting in silence
for the last sun.
Doubt after doubt
over the cloudy mountains
an unexpected warm place is usually found:
I'm reading there, not alone,
the blanks between the trees
where formless become a storm of dust.
Oh you,
Dry mist, silver calling from above
show us the bridge
suspended among the peaks
'cos I'll cross the secret garden
to hearing again your beats
of soul maiden,
hair of bright snow.
May your dark blue sky eyes
will melt down upon my dry clothes
and naked we travel wild and pures
beyond the dellusion of walls.