Somewhere I have never traveled,
Gladly beyond any experience,
Your eyes have their silence:
In your most frail gesture are things which inclose me,
Or which I cannot touch because they are too near.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me
Though I have closed myself as fingers
You open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
Touching skillfully, mysteriously, her first rose.
Or if your wish be to close me,
I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
As when the heart of this flower imagines
The snow carefully everywhere descending.
Nothing which we are to perceive in this world
Equals the power of your fragility: whose texture
Comples me with the color of its countries,
Rendering death and forever with each breathing.
I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens,
Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes
Is deeper than all roses.
Nobody, not even rain, has such small hands.
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