Green sound intact. The fig tree's arms open to me.

Its shadow,
like a panther,
stalks my lyrical shadow.

The moon is counting dogs.
She slips and stars over.

Yesterday,
tomorrow,
black and green,
you haunt my laurel wreath.

No one would love you like
me
if you'd only change my heart !

... And the fig tree shouts and
comes at me in frightful
proliferation.