Imagine that the more honest the voice, the less it has tears,
love for whatever there might be, passion, fear.
Imagine that on the radio you catch an old hymn.
Imagine that after every letter there weave train behind,
forming helplessly into “Betsy” or “Abraham,”the pen
leading out from the boundary of alphabet and thought.

A cloud in the new life is better, than the sun. The rain,
being continuous, is like self-awareness.
In its turn, the train that you’re not waiting for
on the platform in your raincoat, comes without delay.
There, where there’s a horizon, the sail is its judge.