I

Making your way through the blossoms,
the world is in love with you.

Bright and unapproachable ones
repeat for us the play of the bittersweet branch.

Who doesn’t hurt in their outstretched blood,
in the presence of these sleepwalkers?

We would have you in our sleep too,
the way the spring has you now,

the way it wraps longing around your shadow,
and holds you in its jaws of wind.

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