I don’t know if you’re living or dead—
Whether to look for you here on earth
Or only in evening meditation,
When we grieve serenely for the dead.
Everything is for you: my daily prayer,
And the thrilling fever of the insomniac,
And the blue fire of my eyes,
And my poems, that white flock.
No one was more intimate with me,
No one made me suffer so,
Not even the one who consigned me to torment,
Not even the one who caressed and forgot.