I time these minutes like something will be lost otherwise
the falling of the crimson leaves above my head,
the peculiar smirk of the sly squirrel perched on the corner of the fence.
I will marry the sun when it peeks one more time from behind the clouds
my temple of pure, unadulterated occurrences living outside of perpetual weeping.
These are only simple visions we can hope for in the coming days
those of natural life, still abiding by the order of things
unaware of the angels falling at the waist side
how many can we bring back to life.
It must be said again and again that hope can live on.
Will you marry the sun with me and sleep with the moon?
I have known many angels. I will not bury them under thoughtless men.