Somehow there's no more darkness left at all.
I've soaked up sunlight through a thousand wounds,
and now this whiteness that I cloak you in
you won't find even in the Alps: this wind
whirls also there on high and stains the snow.
Even white roses bear a hint of dust.
The ultimate miracle is in ourselves:
these white expanses genuinely aglow
against the universe. The purest thing
in all creation then is not the twilight,
nor the sky when it's reflected off the river,
nor the sun on the apple blossoms. It is love.