I opened your letters
And I gave them up to the air
That they might become spring clouds
That letters of memories
Might weep over the hills,
That they might weep springs and rivers.
That the letters might weep over us.
Last night I told a story
Of you to the wild wind.
In memory of you I recited from memory
A verse to the streams,
That the water might bear it away
And tell it to the rivers,
That the wind might bear it away
And sing it to the plains.
Last night under the rain
I walked road by road in my thoughts.
Your tresses strand by strand,
In my thoughts I walked, braiding strands.
The kisses that had not been planted on your lips
Along, all along the road,
Along the edge, the edge of the stream --
I walked, planting them in the ground.
So that, ever following in my footsteps
-- Along, all along the road,
On the edge, the edge of the stream --
Kisses might grow like daisies,
Kisses might grow like wild mint.
Last night it rained and rained.
The water was too much for the river to hold.
Last night my loneliness
Was too much for me alone to hold . . .
Last night the April rain
Washed the footprints from the ground.
The wound in my heart grew worse,
Because it washed away the imprint of your foot.
Last night I wandered the streets in vain,
Like a hunter who has lost the trail I searched . . .
Last night the world was all water,
The sky was refreshed,
The ground was refreshed.
But I, with your name on my lips,
All alone like the parched land
I burned up under the rain.