The Garden

Never born, never!
But could come into bud.

Every second it
is deepened and renewed.

Every second opens
new distinct pathways.

This way! That way!
Go my multiplying bodies.

Traversing the villages
or sleeping in the sea.

Everything is open! There are
locks for the keys.
But the sun and moon
lose us and mislead us.
And beneath our feet
the roadways are confused.

Here I’ll contemplate
all I could have been.
God or beggar,
water or ancient pearl.

My many pathways
lightly tinted
make a vast rose
round my body.


Like a map, but impossible,
the garden of the possible.
Every second it
is deepened and renewed.

Never born, never!
But could come into bud.