I'm still a child,
though my roots are white
and my eyes have too much snow.

The clock shows the years are broken,
a picture smiles in the mirror
telling me I'm very small
though my fingers searching
the heat of the facts, the fears, the dreams.

I drink the sky again,
the icons will be full of light,
they rent to my empty face
rooms of the silken prayers.

I don't mind if the world laughs
and it shows me a wheel chair
that can print enough letters
on the plains of the silent papers,
the stamps of a tardy child.

I'm child, now, again,
though I take in my arms a daughter,
my sweet treasure, Death!