Last night, some deep red Aprils capitulated
before my disarmed Mays of youth,
the hysterical ivories of her kiss found me
dead; and in a sigh of love I locked them up.
Strange, docile corn-ear. Her eyes besieged me
one amaranthe evening on which I recited a song to her
songs; and last night, in the middle of the celebration, the two languages
of her thirst-scorched breasts spoke to me.
That poor half-breed; poor are her weapons; poor are
her cream-colored sails that go to the limits of the salty
mists of a deadsea. Victorious and vanquished,
she remained pensive and baggy-eyed and claret.
I left at dawn. And since that battle,
at night two slave serpents entered my life.