The colour of the popies rests on your forehead,
the mourning veils of widows finds an echo, oh pitying one:
when you run through the fields behind the trains
the lean ploughman turns his back on you,
from your footsteps the gentle toads sprout, trembling.
The young man with no memories salutes you, asking after his lost will,
his hands move in your atmosphere like birds,
and around him is a great moisture:
crossing his unfinished thoughts,
trying to reach something, oh in search of you
his pale eyes flutter in your net
like lost instruments suddenly glittering.
Or I remember the first day of thirst,
the shadow pressed against the jasmines,
the deep body in which you shrank
like a drop also trembling.
But you hush the great trees, and above the moon, out past everything
you keep watch over the sea like a theif.
Oh night, my soul full of fear asks
you desperately for the metal it needs.
