Inquiry of the Rose Garden

You tell them through which door you entered and came into my bedroom, onto my bed? Your shoulder: the shore of my bitter wave. Your arm: my sail of rescue in this storm. You tell them through which door you entered and came under my skin, into my veins? You well up in the cold atrium of my heart you circulate in my every cell. The flowing red wild roses you tell by which road you brought them and gave them to my colourless skeleton? — The barren, sullen borders with their stammering tongues ask the marrow of my bones: through which door has it entered the rose garden into my being?...