A body is given me—what shall I do with it,
So whole and so mine?
For the quiet joy of breathing and living,
Whom, tell me, should I thank?
I am both a gardener and a flower I am, too;
In the prison of the world, I am not alone.
On the window panes of eternity, settled
My breathing, my warmth.
A design shall be imprinted on them,
Unrecognizable since not long ago.
Let the dregs of the moment drip down—
The sweet design cannot be crossed out.
