The wind rolling a heart on the pavement of courtyards
a sobbing angel enhooked in a tree
the column of azure that enwraps the marble
make open in my night the gates of rescue.
A poor bird who dies and the taste of ashes
the memory of an eye asleep on the wall
and this sorrowful fist which threatens the azure
make in the hollow of my hand your face descend
This face harder and lighter than a mask
is heavier to my hand than to the fence’s fingers
the jewels he pockets ; it is drowned in tears
it is sombre and fierce,
a green bouquet casques it.
Your face is stern: it is that of a Greek shepherd’s
it rests shuddering in the hollow of my closed hands
your mouth is that of a dead woman where your eyes are roses
and your nose of an archangel is perhaps the beak.