The Undiscovered

Do you think high fences are enough,
or the careful grass or the perfection of paint,
and the people who water their birds,
that still fly away with a hurt song?
When the shrouded hills turn over in the night,
do you think you will then feel any closer
to the sand of other solitudes?
And at that hour when the ocean
has at last been put to sleep in the leaves,
will you then believe in the
breasts of women or the lips of men?
There are things in me, and in you,
that not even the weight of others can enter,
that desolate us and leave us with
voices of blue embers.
What outer blood could calm you now,
when there is so much always undiscovered,
and so much that you cannot translate
even to yourself?

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