That garland ! Hurry ! For I'm dying ! Weave quickly ! Sing ! Moan ! Sing ! For shadow clouds my throat and again, for the thousandth time, comes the light of august.

Between your love for me... 
and mine for you.
--- air of stars and tremor of plant ---
a thicket of anemones rises
with a dark moan an entire year.

Relish the fresh landscape of my wound,
break rushes and delicate rivulets,
drink blood poured on honeyed thigh.

But hurry !  So united, entwined
mouth broken by love and soul bitten.
time will find us destroyed...