Silence. Here night has now fallen,

the sun has gone down behind the graveyard;

here a thousand pupils are weeping:

do not return; my heart is already dead.

Silence. Everything here is now clothed

in strict grief; and this passion,

like bad kerosene, barely burns.

Spring will come. You will sing “Eve”

from a horizontal minute, from a

furnace in which the spikenards of Eros burn.

Forge there for the poet your pardon,

that will grieve for me still,

like a nail closing a coffin!

And yet … one night of lyricism, your

marvelous breast, your red sea

will flog itself with the waves of fifteen years,

on seeing far off, freighted with memories,

my corsair, my ingratitude.

Afterward, your apple orchard, your tendered lip

that humbles itself to me one last time,

and that dies bloody from so much loving,

like a pagan sketch of Jesus.

My love! And you will sing;

and the feminine in my soul will vibrate,

as inside a cathedral in mourning.