I guess that this is where I want to be -
my lips, my hands, my face and weathered skin:
O press me down with tears, wash over me,
ravage me, hit me, remind me you're still in!
For everything seems clear now, in the dawn;
No secret bars the pilgrimage we keep,
or promises sweet nothings held too long,
like silence holding mountain snows asleep.
Until one flake brings winter smashing down
in tumbling, rumbling ice, and trembling trees.
The truth cries - buried! Unshared secrets drown!
Warm hearts concealed by waves of worries freeze...
Some dreamed of winds that whispered too serene
to ever hear another's words again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.