Something
from the sadness of a requiem
the branches are swinging
all around fir cones;
death; where are your pins?

Something
from the mildness of a lullaby
the waves are moving
the yachts are unfolding the masts
the boatman, where is the North Star?

Something
from the melancholy of a great yearning
embalms the bed clothes
the coach has not arrived yet
can you see the horses coming in the distance?

Something
from the joy of the first flight
is tapping at the window
blue butterflies among plum trees in blossom
you little child, has the heaven opened?