Whether it affects You or not, at least hear my cry. This free soul does not ask for justice or reward.

This handful of dust, this stormy wind, these endless skies— is this the joy of Your creation, a gift or a cruelty?

The rose’s tent could not survive the garden’s breeze. Is this what You call spring, is this the blessed wind?

I am guilty, a wanderer in a strange land— yet even Your angels could never rebuild Your ruins.

That barren desert, that fragile world of Yours— still gives thanks for my hunger for struggle.

An adventurous spirit finds no joy in that garden where no hunter waits in ambush.

The station of love is far beyond the angels’ reach; it belongs only to those with the courage to endure more.