Sketch of Time
Between the wind and the darkness,
between the ascending/increasing pleasure/joy
and the deep quietness,
between the elation of my white dress
and the nocturnal hollowness of the mine,
the gentle eyes of my father that wait; his glowing
happiness. I rise to meet him. It is the land
of small stars, and on it,
upon its rocks of pyrite, the sun descends. High clouds
of quartz, of flint. In his look, in its encircling light,
the warmth of amber.
He lifts me in his arms. He comes close.
Our shadow leans against the bank. He puts me down.
He gives me his hand.
All the descent
is a silent pleasure,
a dark warmth,
a glowing plenitude.
Something in that calm covers us, something protects us
and lifts us,
as we go down.