somewhere i never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail getures are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petel by petel myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if you wish to be close me,i an
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to preceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only somethingin me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands