Shepherds buried the sun in the bleak forest.

A fisherman drew

The moon from the freezing pond in a hairy net.

In blue crystal

The pale man dwells, the cheek leaned on his stars;

Or he inclines the head in purple sleep.

But always the black flight of birds touches

The beholder, the sanctity of blue flowers,

The nearby stillness ponders forgotten things, extinct angels.

Again the forehead nightfalls into moony stone.

A radiant youth,

The sister appears in autumn and black putrefaction.