somewhere i have nevertravelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyeshave their silence:
in your most frail gestureare things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touchbecause they are too near
your slightest look willeasily unclose me
though i have closed myselfas fingers,
you open always petal bypetal myself as Spring opens
(touchingskillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to closeme, i and
my life will shut verybeautifully , 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 the color ofits 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