Last night, some April grain capitulated

before my disarmed youthful Mays;

the hysterical ivories of her kiss found me

dead; and with a love sigh I caged them.

Strange, docile spike. Her eyes besieged me

one amaranthine evening when I recited a song to her

songs; and last night, during the toasts, the two

tongues of her thirst-inflamed breasts spoke to me.

Swarthy poor she was; poor her weapons; poor

her cream-colored sails pushed to the hilt over the salt

spray of a deadsea. Conquering and conquered,

she was left pensive, hollow-eyed and garnet.

I took off at dawn. Ever since that battle,

at night two serpent slaves go into my life.