Throw me the fruits from your lap, Lord,
You said whatever’s mine is yours too
that’s why I’m always on the wait
in agony, in ecstasy, in turn

Were I a column rising to the Heavens,
each of my days flooded with light,
were I a soul whom dark and death can’t threaten,
my fruits would much more easily get ripe


As I am, though, I can’t but stay
with one palm only open to the sky
the other turned down to the earth
Endeavouring to find You, Lord,
my halted flight becomes a vault.