When evening appears

A blue countenance quietly leaves you.

A small bird sings in the tamarind tree.

A soft monk

Folds the deceased hands.

A white angel haunts Mary.

A nocturnal wreath

Of violets, corn and purple grapes

Is the year of the beholder.

By your feet

The graves of the dead open

When you lay the forehead in the silver hands.

Silently the autumn moon

Dwells upon your mouth,

Dark song drunk with poppy juice;

Blue flower,

That quietly sounds in yellowed stones.