Give me your hand, the morning said,
its head on fire, I will walk you through
the valley, up into the hills.
Are you patient, are you gifted,
do you know where heaven is?
My hands are rough, they are not worthy;
though, even lizards have a purpose
scuttling over blazing sands.
Now on creaking hinges, evening brings
its pen, scrawling words of darkness
with sure, immortal script. Are you
worthy of the stars, are you worthy of
the faithful moon? And I, alone
and stricken in my quiet room