Elis, when the blackbird calls in the black woods,

This is your decline.

Your lips drink the coolness of the blue rock-spring.

Cease, when your forehead bleeds quietly

Ancient legends

And dark interpretations of the flight of birds.

But with gentle steps you walk into the night,

That hangs full of purple grapes,

And you move the arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thorn bush tinges,

Where your moon-like eyes are.

O, how long, Elis, have you been dead.

Your body is a hyacinth,

Into which a monk dips his waxy fingers.

Our silence is a black cavern,

From which a soft animal steps at times

And slowly lowers heavy eyelids.

On your temples black dew drips,

The last gold of expired stars.