Perhaps not being is being, but without you,
without your setting out to cut the noon
like a blue flower, without your walking
later on across the bricks and the fog,
without that light you carry in your hand,
which maybe others will not see turned to gold,
that maybe no one even knew was growing
like the red origin of the rose,
without your being, in the end, without your coming
excitedly, abruptly, to know my life . . .
gust of rosebushes, wheat of the wind,
and since then, I am because you are.
and since then you are, I am, we are,
And through love I and you and we will be.
This man. Yes. He has it, that so impressive a way with words. And since then, I am because you are.