From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.
Nothing
in the world
is usual today.
This is
the first morning.
Come quickly -- as soon as
these blossoms open,
they fall.
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.