A plea for two,
a plea for when the Word comes
to destroy houses, to shake oceans
of all their swallowed treasures,
to raise the thought up to the clouds,
to renew the earth.
A plea for both of us,
although we lacked ardor,
and we couldn’t to move the course of time
closer to the blue valley
of our childhood, of our adolescence
with freckles, and mute tears.
A plea for us
while we haven’t yet put on the thick coat
of winter knocking on our window,
so You would save a place for us on a branch
in the garden of springtime,
next to a wren.