Elis, when the blackbird calls in the dark forest,

this is your downfall.

Your lips drink the cool of the blue

rock spring.

Invoke, when your brow lightly bleeds,

ancient legends

and dark interpretations of bird flight.

You, though, go with soft paces in the night

that hangs full of purple grapes

and you wave arms more beautifully in blue.

A thornbush chimes

where your mooning eyes are.

O, how long Elis, are you dead?

Your body is a hyacinth

a monk dips his wax finger into.

A black cave is our silence.

Sometimes a soft beast treads out of it

and slowly sinks its heavy lids.

Black dew beads on your temples.

The last gold of fallen stars.