Only in dreams, prolonged

Let other matters rest today.
In this thirty-four-year-old sky
have I grown tall only in dreams?
And in the garden of dreams, in the wind,
proud with the pride of green life,
placing tender feet on grass after grass,
have I only scattered dew?
Dew mingling with flesh—
has no weeping wept, piercing the heart,
full waves, full force on thirty shorelines?

When the blue sun drowns in destitute crying,
the abandoned weeper says, throwing off her veil,
in the habit of a thousand years I come.
Did you come too, then?