It is a wonder that the glaciers move,
the stars melt,
that we go on falling
like a river,
like tears,
like rain,
like comets,
like the sun into the ink of night.
Everything falling into the crevasse
of its own being,
into its own horizon,
words ending without pause,
without commas.
Fire falling into ash,
the moon disappearing into itself.
It is a wonder how high the ledge
of notes come from the deep rumbling
of our hearts.
The volcano of mountains
that rise inside us,
all going to the shore of the last moment,
the last embrace,
the last kiss.
Or is it that falling,
the leaf coming from its summer song,
the flake of snow
from the expanse of the storm,
are seeds of new ascendings.
How does a prayer begin,
but hands raise up,
the heart opening.
How does a glacier move
but from its flurries,
the storms with lightning soaring.
Whether things fly or fall
we are where the wave comes calling,
where our souls already roam.
And truth is the joy of continuous loving,
opening the eyes and singing
with voices forever young.