Mother’s chest was closed on a winter’s night,
the earth regained its earthliness, heaven its holiness.
In Mother’s chest there are a few folded shirts
woven from chestnut linen;
a few photographs of my father abroad
and a quince which floods us with its fragrance.
There is a crucifix from the Ascension in Jordan,
an emptiness of pain which fills our mute worlds.
Mother’s chest contains all bright roads
released from the earth and reaching to God.
Cautiously she draws near to open it
with a tear transformed into a flame.
Among the great treasuries of this clumsy world
Mother’s chest is precious, because even now
it shines filled with a particular soul.