In this splendour of white sky I sink my eyes, and sinking them I weep. The sky is covered with golden tears; the clean sky. --- And ah, it seems that a white claw must swoop down and carry me through the curving sky: the white claw...

I do not know your name,
I have never seen your face:
I imagine your fair,

delicate as young buds,
small and sweet and...
somehow,
I don't know... divine.

In your eyes a tranquil lake
lies open to the sun:
sweetly its gold
drinks in the light,
and all is quiet.
And your hands, 
fine,
like my grief that grows,
grows,
and will kill me - 
eventually -,
and ends up 
like this,
as you see,
in a poem.

Ah,
are you like that?
Tell me if you have
a murmuring rumour of bees in your voice,

If your ears are like
curled rose-petals...
Tell me if you cry, humbly,
when you look at distant stars,
whether white doves and golden canaries
grow sleepy in your slender hands.
Because you are all of this and more,
I'm sure...