Classic Poem

The one that I wanted came,
the one I called.

Not the sweeper of defenseless skies,
stars without huts,
moons without a country,
snows.
Those snows that fell from a hand,
a name,
a dream,
a brow.

Not the one that tied death
to his hair.

The one that I wanted.

Without scratching the air,
or wounding leaves or shaking windows.

The one that tied silence
to his hair.

So as, without hurting me,
to dig a bank of soft light in my breast
and make my soul navigable.