Much like me, you make your way forward,

Walking with downturned eyes.

Well, I too kept mine lowered.

Passer-by, stop here, please.

Read, when you’ve picked your nosegay

Of henbane and poppy flowers,

That I was once called Marina,

And discover how old I was.

Don’t think that there’s any grave here,

Or that I’ll come and throw you out …

I myself was too much given

To laughing when one ought not.

The blood hurtled to my complexion,

My curls wound in flourishes …

I was, passer-by, I existed!

Passer-by, stop here, please.

And take, pluck a stem of wildness,

The fruit that comes with its fall—

It’s true that graveyard strawberries

Are the biggest and sweetest of all.

All I care is that you don’t stand there,

Dolefully hanging your head.

Easily about me remember,

Easily about me forget.

How rays of pure light suffuse you!

A golden dust wraps you round …

And don’t let it confuse you,

My voice from under the ground.