The flake hesitates in the blue sky
Once again, the last flake of the big snow.
And it’s as though she who must surely have imagined
What could be would enter the garden,
That look, that simple god, without remembering
The tomb, without any thought but happiness,
Without any future
Except its dispersal in the blue of the world.
‘No, don’t touch me,’ he would say to her,
But even to say no would shed light.