I witness a falling doll,

while you are sitting on the wooden chair.

I jump off the cliff, take a leap,

and move my hand closer to that fateful wool—

even if I don’t know if it is yours or not.

The world is meaningless, and your tear means apocalypse.

I dive into the darkness with my eyes wide awake.

I wake up in the white snow, an iris in my hand.

A sea salt scent, three arrows in my chest,

wolf footprints, and my blood dancing across the snow—

the rose among the jasmine.

You are there, smiling at me: the chamomile.