And I wonder
what shovel took that dirth,
what hand moved it, where it is,
now, that part of my heart taken from me
one night, a year or a day long,
that marked me with an emptiness
crying, to this day, to the sky:
"Love! Love!"
You, soul whose path I cross,
are you that piece? Do you hold it with you,
waiting for me to deliver it
to those who lost it "before
of ever having it"?
Or are you a mirror that I will love
with all, all my heart,
whose injustices I will suffer
and to which I will return
continuing to hope
that it is you, my love?
Maybe that piece has flown away,
And will never return. Maybe fear,
superficiality, selfishness, have
hurled it to the stars.
Perhaps that piece has fled,
and will never return.
And I wonder
what shovel took that dirth,
what hand moved it, who took
away the body from this shadow
who shadows loves, who on shadows feeds.