And though the sun is years away
it's hard to say its sky
hasn't the same passion

—where else did all those storms
come from? telling this tree
what's what —its branch still wet

already has the mother's leaves
and this ribbon you brought
for the crucial hours

—you tie two knots as if the tree
was giving birth to twins
and slowly one shadow that won't cry

will just lie close
already being bitten
by flies nobody needs

—it was a difficult labor
the belly swollen, torn
but who can say who was the first

to reach the sun
and carry back those flames
that bleed forever

—even at night these dead twigs
have your emptiness, your fingers
freezing with cradlesong.