If I could dye my hair
right here, at the roots of my soul
with this soft green, which is leaking, at Easter Vigil
from the burgeoned wooden crosses, from the grass tresses which are growing
on the top of the tombs, defying this
toiled earth, my darlings, my sweethearts, my beloved ones
I would let my fringe grow long, so that my deforested look
will never miss the spring in which we'll rise together, in green garment
so that my eyes, depleted of tears, may receive
the blessing of the eyelashes loaded with dew drops
so that my nostrils, depleted of scent, may remember
the perfume of humility left by the snowdrops, in their bow
so that the unextinguishable embers of my longing, impermissibly smoking
where the righteous rest, may honour
His death, trampling down death.