There is no reason.
At most there are stars, longings.
You open a book. How many constellations will not take you in.
With your golden hair you desire that this will be
The home you are searching for,
The word that exists but slips through your fingers.
You have just one recollection, when it gleams, and it blinds,
For them to come. Any memory you keep as a colour,
Even when dead,
And follow it with the will-o’-the-wisp of your voice.
Not even the brightest stars, not even the hungriest
Longings: all is lack – Love/Time.
There remain your ashen hair that you lean
Over your life with, turning your face to the sky.