My mind, my sad saint, not mine
At all, calm and free, broad sun,
A deep breath in her sole cell—
Rien ne se perd, rien ne se crée,
But then it’s all changed, all.
Turn back. Turn it back. Say no,
If it’s changed, it’s lost. Was it
Made by the change? Is it not?
It is not. She’s lost in prayer.
Sun spots still flare in her thoughts—
Quite a few fates worse than death—
Life knows how to hide more pain—
Life, old mage of fire and want,
Of waste and lust, the swift rush
That flares back up, more for us—
Tricks up its sleeve at all times,
Ha. Pff. So it’s all for naught,
All each cell bore for this cost?
