because nature speaks no language, just a quarter of
unbuilt ground would be enough for ten lives of song.
even then, somethings remain leftover, which i only perceive
in evenings when the stars are not there, and you are far away;
times of mania and the leviathan.

green heart of winter, you were born to take care of the
essence of snow and the hour that has not yet come.
somethings break through sounds and at the end of
our century, i can see you at the helm of every city, birdsong,
even light in that last vermeer.

i wish the millennia would be revealed to you sooner
even though it may immobilize us. bring me harvest of lilies,
violets and magnolias. blooms for me irreverent 
of seasons. i send letters to you with night-kites and 
no addresses, just to count clusters of words like constellations.

yes, my love could been better, but surely my labour is witnessed
over and over.