I have lived my hours
nurturing questions without answer.
In addition to a dilapidated love,
what did I forget again -- thrown out, outside?

Questions and questions; always doubts.
Today these bloomed over my pillow:

Who will pick up what my hands
couldn't take in, being so small?

What expression will they have one day,
the brazen eyes that violate my words,
and linger indifferently
while my work cringes in shame?

From where is the persistent chalice
that poisons me?

And nevertheless there is something I understand,
very similar, almost a response,
because by virtue of going over and going back over
this long and incomplete journey,
it is as though suddenly I awoke
in January, from some long sleep,
to find out that I need nothing
except perhaps a sip of fresh water.