These marigolds grow on stems too long
as if their relatives were from the field
of sunflowers, by the wall, under the window
with two bars pushed aside which a child is holding
on to with both hands, with the face of a man
similar to the child who could be pronounced
a saint in the world in which everything is younger
than it looks. Loneliness adds years.

When traces of maturity on the body that develops
by itself, which had no opportunity to meet other
bodies, including the body of God, which didn’t rub
shoulders with anybody and didn’t shake hands, which
exists and gets older without resistance, without gravitation,
when traces on this body provoke longing by sorrow,
we’ll test the passwords of oblivion not to be
condemned to sober reminding that we are still here.