Inside the crying, inside the lament,
I sometimes feel the buds of recovery
Might burst into life. As if here --
At the bottom of my deepest hole --
I only need to climb, simply climb.
And when I'm laying there, immersed,
With salty water flowing from my eyes,
Streaming from matted eyelashes,
I delude myself that I'm redeemed:
In the cost of skin, of finger, of nail,
In their memories that are sunk in streams
Of salted rain, in all those ghosts who try
To make sprouts in my soul, a greenhouse
Who instead shelters my flawed seeds of grief
And sorrow, without a chance of consolation.
(translated from Hebrew by the author and Ward Kelley)