I believe we could say uncounted things
about the way lindens bloom in the morning,
but there is too much snow in our souls,
and the petal spread tires in death.
If you wish, I will turn your face towards the moon,
for she is the lady of violins,
and of mountains, and of our longing
drowned by horns, and by rail screeching.
You have nothing to hide, still you are silent in waiting,
you find yourself nowhere in this world,
except in a plot of land burnt by the sun,
except in an endless wheat field, caressed by wind.
Come home, the spring will be here soon,
the snowdrops will pop up in gardens,
swallows will roost under eaves one by one,
and all mysteries will grow wax wings.