When we were two kids,
fearful of heaven and hell,
my mother enjoyed to tell
kissing our laden eyelids:
“The pathway to the Moon is covered by white roses,
waiting the keen grooms to pluck their true espouses,
amid the sweetest boons, but if one foolishly chooses,
lift will be the veiled gloom as the witching hour encloses.”
Whirling like a ballerina
a white rose is sliding,
A swift wind is singing
a wistful sonatina.
My fingers clasp the bare air, she travels on a crystal stream,
dancing, alone without a pair, removed from a celestial dream.
A vessel so chaste and fair carrying an unknown gleam;
The water soaks my hair as I hasten with a pledging scream.
Yet, she persists with the same
the fall is a gracious dance
the fall is a gracious dame…