As snow dies to a fire,
that runs blue,
your white gown,
pours burning love,
on each skull.
And among water-lilies,
when the sap of the world,
and the wine of the daylight,
hit your eyes, you laugh.
Who dreams with,
a cloak of ignorance,
the stars have wept rose-colored tears,
to the evening breeze.
In each soft corner,
from violet forests,
to the fiery horizon,
sleeps peace and love.
Do all these words,
embroidered with black moss,
weep on the shoulder,
of an eternal kiss?
But endless rivers,
let me sail,
and distances me from the time,
of sour apples pale-eyed and love galore.
For in the antique dreams one never forgets,
the scented twilight,
the twisted trees.

