A woman says yes and lets in
the unknowable, the generative,
she lets herself burst out of the
old form, the new
she does not know, she lives
in waiting, nothing is
known, nothing is being, she
waits, like in spring
the buds on bare
branches tremble until they open
—all are in hope.
Then the new sprouts on
earth, invited
into the realm of sin, it emerges
crying, naked and blind,
it suffers in that
first hour, it suffers
again and again, defenseless: will it
still open its new
eyes and will it
risk its fate—then this opening is
out of hope.
Child and mother: seeds for the
new, part of the creation that is
always unfolding, suffering,
loving, free on earthly paths,
they give themselves to happiness,
to sin, intimately
united by the
hour when they both trembled and
waited until the rift, the
deepest opening
came—and was the birth of hope.
Illustration Gilda Bartel
