How far far away
one star looks, when I'm lying on my back.

At the same time how near, as if linked
by a golden thread to the corner of my squinting eye,

and in the night, when I gently wake,
how tightly I press against the window-pane, peeping out.

Abruptly, as if sprouting,
as if waiting to be called, as if welcoming,

suddenly, a lonely flame flares up within my soul
in regrets that gust like the wind.

I rise in my white night-clothes
and clasp my hands to my heart.