I do not trample over world’s corolla of wonders

and I don’t kill

in thinking the mysteries I find

along my path

in flowers, eyes, on lips or graves.

The light of others

smothers the miracle of the unknown that’s hidden

in depths of darkness

but I,

with my light, I grow world’s mystery -

and just as with its light, the white moon

does not suppress, but tremulous

increases evermore the enigma of night,

I too enrich the dark horizon

with ample shivering of sacred magic

and what’s not understood

turns more bewildering

in front of me-

because I love it all

flowers, and eyes, and lips, and graves.