Wanderer

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.