My body is opaque to the soul.

Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it unto the

        spirit’s longing, 

But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul. 

A closed lid is my soul’s flesh-eye. 

O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger,

Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye.

I am weak with much giving. 

I am weak with the desire to give more. 

(How strong a thing is the little finger!)

So weak that I have confused the body with the soul, 

And the body with the little finger. 

(How frail is the little finger.)

My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in stars, 

O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger . . .