the shrine of life

I dream myself
door – living image
carved by a hand
too skilfull a door that opens
towards the leaden ray I love the sea
the chilly air of the iron nights because
only at night I have time for moans
my dear seeker of wishes
then I have lively times descended
of roars of dreams
I ease your crushed knees
burned hands which have carried
with honour a rusty sword
as a daughter of death
in fight
I dream myself
like this
as if I opened
the same door – empty image-
craved over
shrine of lives
underneath your shirt