Where do I fly myself,
with my feathers, made of stone,
so fragilely sewed,
on my short wings?
Towards the water lily ground
that feels your shadow.

Where do I run myself,
with my broken legs,
full of bleeding holes?
Towards a hidden sanctuary,
to bring you prayer.

Here they are, my bits,
that shoot full of life,
in front of your legs,
white and healthy,
not taken in bunches of thorns
and upon faults of rock,
sharpened, under the greatness
of pine needles.

Here I am, next to you,
under the flag of throe longing,
with my stairs, broken
and my ropes cut off.