I want nothing else, only a hand...

I want nothing else, only a hand,
a wounded hand, 
I want nothing else, only a hand,
though I spend a thousand nights
without a bed.


It would be a pale lily of lime,
a dove tethered fast to my heart.
It would be the guard who,
on the night of my death,
would block entrance absolutely 
to the moon.


I want nothing else, only that hand,
for the daily unctions and my agony's
white sheet.
I want nothing else, only the hand,
to carry a wing of my own death.


Everything else all passes away.
Now blush without name.
Perpetual star.
Everything else is something else: sad wind,
while the leaves flee, whirling in flocks.
I want nothing else, only a hand to hold.