I can hear in your voiceyou were born in one countryand will die in another,
and where you live is where you’ll be buried,and when you dream it’s where you were born.
and the moon never hangs in both skieson the same night,
and that’s why you think the moon has a sister,that’s why your day is hostage to your nights,
and that’s why you can’t sleep except by forgetting,you can’t love except by remembering.
And that’s why you’re divided: yes and no,I want to die. I want to live.Never go away. Leave me alone.
I can hear by what you sayyour first words must have been mother and father.
Even before your own name, mother.Long before amen, father.
And you put one word in your left shoe,one in your right, and you go walking.
And when you lie down you tuck themunder your pillow, where they give riseto other words: childhood, fate, and rescueHeaven, wine, return.
And even god and death are offspring.Even world is begotten, even summera descendant. And the apple tree. Look and see
the entire lineage alivein every leaf and branchingdecision, snug inside each fast bud,
together in the flower, and againin the pulp, mingling in the fragranceof the first mouthful and the last.
I can tell by your silence you’ve seen the petalsimmense in their vanishing.
Flying, they build your only dwelling.Falling, they sow shadows at your feet.
And when you close your eyesyou can hear the ancient fountainsfrom which they derive,
rock and water ceaselessly declaringthe laws of coming and going.