What's it for?

My robe is soil, my shirt underneath it is damp, soaked with salt.

My hair is a pine tree, a bush and ready to harvest.

My nourishment is the clouds, a cool nut by the dawn's early light.

My harbor is the wood of the cart, unbendable.

I play with rain, ice, it's all for free.

I lean on the light, which I can give away.

My song is the lightning and it sounds like thunder.

A star slides on my pin, hugging a green stone.

I imagine a bug out of a veil and grass, to put on a trail,

My book is transparent parchment, waiting to be filled,

My sorrow isn't gaudy, it can hardly be heard,

My mantra is a monotonous fairy castle, waiting to be cradled.

Moon on the soles of my boots, I pretend to be the sun which dances.

I mix colours with the feathers of my wings to be painted.

I ask for a candle to put on the peak of my soul to light it up.

My dust is blown away by a cat, no use in weeping for it.