Exile

I speak of the exile
Of the hearts without home
I speak of the exile
Of the gardens with wandering minds
I speak of the exile
Of the twisted marks

I speak of the mornings
Without evening
And the clocks
With crucified hands
Preaching the story
Of the wooden swallow
In the language
Of the dried-up lakes

I breathe and whisper
This exile
But far away
I hear the songs
Of the dove and the goddess
The dove sharing the treasure urn
The goddess sending me her light

I speak of the exile
Of the reborn wings