Passing through what you called desolate air
into that purple spreading across the West
still myself, no less than myself,
 
I came with the scent of myrrh in my hair,
of trees wounded and robbed of their essential oils.
I came through bristling thorns
 
and everything I sensed,
each wound, every pain
was born in me.
 
The world came from within;
yet how strange and true
to find myself in someone else.