You’re the ashes, which are clamped in my palm.
Blowing easily - the wind has dropped your fears.
And with me you will never be relaxed and calmed down
I’m the fire which is extinguished with your tears.
You’re the rustle of foliage at the bottom of a throne:
I’ve knitted the winter from ashes - and the voice has hung.
Run away, o, my craven, if you can to escape me, go on.
I will always keep stinging with kisses being your dun.
You’re the sun which is threaded a needle of love’s brew.
I’ve smoked winter’s dawn with the pain. I did it too slow.
And the outburst of hate ness and love – it’s for you,
How do I manage to mix it? Don’t ask. I don’t know.