I Listen to the song of your name in me
flesh for the necessary fruit.
When the solitude
beneath your name could be heard and tightened,
When I was like a buried boy
to whom they call by his former name,
and he responds, but there is no voice within himself;
And my hand was at the depth,
it had a glimpse, the key, my own form,
And I felt you beyond my chest in our embrace
like a joyous and consummated crown.
You called me to your name,
and I came,
with clear identity of origin,
with the true habitual grace
with which cathedrals dream of their honor.
By day you are beside the night.
With you I am day,
and by virtue of the absence in which I evoke myself
I see how my form divides me,
how I breathe in your hair without risk,
inside my voice and not throughout it.