Lovely is your geological form,
like a military tank,
earthenware hued,
impenetrable shell

A night bird
I never was …
neither a barn owl, nor a nightjar.

A plain scribe am I!
From inside a sort of command
bids me write.

My exercise is to handle the strata
of thoughts and sayings
uttered before me,
of emotions felt before my time

Lord!
Overnight
by inner explosion
the rose
caught fire.

I saw old silver
aflame
in the light of altar lamps,
not knowing from the slant of your eyes

In my keel, Lord,
insert your graft
from which branches will sprout

When in the conch of my ear
lean memories gallop over me
like the ocean shuffling
on a distant shore

In a caravan drive me
laden with riches
meandering of a caravan
under the blue stars