In a park where children have stopped playing,
where I have to lie down with you soon.
I’ll see what you’ve tied to your loneliness,
with your lilies of snow,
your footprints in the ash of bridges burning behind us.
And there, the shadows of the leaves on our entangled bodies,
my mouth on the dew of your back.
I’ll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my empty hands,
my knives and my cross.