That gift, my body, what to do with it,
So single, so mine, impossible to split?
For quiet joy to breathe, for life and happiness.
Who should I, tell me, all my thanks address?
The gardener, the flower, I’m all in one
In а dungeon of the world never alone.
My warmth, my breath, all that is not in vain,
Upon the glass of being it was lain.
On it my dear patterns will be laid,
Which were unrecognizable of late.
May slime of trice not to be washed away -
Forever lovely patterns should to stay.