Wherever I went, in whatever direction,
my feet were soaked --
there was so much blood
that bystanders couldn't help asking:
What fashion is this, what new tradition?
For what unknown festival have you dyed your feet?

I said nothing, but they went on asking:
Why do you still complain
of the utter famine of love? You're doing it for nothing.
There's no chance for fidelity now.

So wash this blood off your feet, they said.
Let your feet heal.
These roads, now soft with blood, will harden again.
And a hundred new paths will break through their dried mud.
Keep your feet ready for those roads, they said.

And be careful, they said, take care of the heart.
It still has to break
open into a thousand different wounds.
It still has to know knife after knife after knife.