Reflection

You wrote beautiful words to me,
sounding brightly in the morning sun, in autumn.
When the winds arouse, they grabbed the masts,
dried up the dew,
flew high above as ancient prayers,
took shape as a cry on the lips of stony totems.

Maybe, we were different,
halves of one shadow on the orbits of moons and stars.
When the words met in the middle of the fog,
unexpectedly,
those phases of light, those dark, soft, bright spots
made a miracle: as if absorbing all in one,
the memory, the future,
the finite, still infinite.

After this fulfillment
everything will remain as it was.
The caretaker´s wife will stay on her balcony
In Topelius street.
The icy slope will melt, at the most.
I will live more, I promise.