Huts Thinking of fences Gardens Thinking of spring Gardens Thinking of Barn Thinking of telling stories at night Thinking of the way of light Thinking of the light Thinking of the owl of the furnace of the earth Thinking of the cloud of the period Thinking of giving my heart What
did I do but sit and cry Crying when the garden was burning Story What was I, except for a harvest
My work is to sanctify the water of moaning from the hand of your work but to make the garden beautiful from a stone of
the heart The shepherd was in the reed, the cold hand was colored, the laughter was the month of January , I sat down and told the story, I was tired of sleeping, I loved you, you were a poet and you were bright, I only told you out of sorrow.
