Upheld in all beliefs
And traditions, scarce,

But widely transmuted.
I know, a Scheherazade

Of shipwrecks; bet upon
The first child, they say.

And you, you were difficult
To hold, every broken pane

In the house talked to you;
In March, you knew

The rain before it came;
You adored that sodden

Terrain where old souls
Rise smoking through

The leaves; you were
Crying with happiness

In the deepest shade of love,
You seemed to be emerging

In chains of wildflowers;
One day we shall experience

True history in the long-
Hand of the sun.

– Marc Vincenz