When I whisper to you,
my mouth is as if filled with bent nails.
When I look to the horizon,
how can my eyes not fall on all the wrong I have done?
Prayer. In a forgotten field,
a pile of whithered sticks is covered with crows.
And yet, the sun rising at dawn is not the resurrection,
and an echo is not an answer.
Your anger is no more revealed in a moving army
than in an earthquake;
my only peace the light of the moon on calm waters,
in the depths of night.
