Out of the palm of my hands,
from the creases of my skin
my story unfolds...
it is not unique
but speaks
a strange language.
In the mind, it takes
but minutes for death
to overcome the ripened flower...
the sweetness of fruit
sleeping in the sun,
the odor of life
disintegrating.
In my bed, the sun sets...
my shoulders- earth,
my mouth- the song of wind
in the breast of trees,
my body a vessel of Spring
spills dream.
