Mourning Song

And there are times when I do not know trees for trees,

when I do not know these fingers for my hand.

Where are you, in what hanging gardens do you sleep?

Under whose leaves, under what dew?

Where is your heart beating, if not here? in what giant’s nest?

And there is no time in which a dark river

does not tantalize me, does not make me want to sleep

under soft silt, under rusted coins.

Whose dream are you, if not mine? when did you begin, when end?

If I follow you, will I find you?

And will you know me, if I do?