| |
| In the center of the earth I will |
| push aside |
| the emeralds so that I can see |
| you--- |
| you like an amanuensis, with a pen |
| of water, copying the green sprigs |
| of plants. |
| |
| What a world! What deep parsley! |
| What a ship sailing through the |
| sweetness! |
| And you, maybe---and me, maybe---a |
| topaz. |
| There'll be no more dissensions in |
| the bells. |
| |
| There won't be anything but all the |
| fresh air, |
| apples carried on the wind, |
| the succulent book in the woods: |
| |
| and there where the carnations |
| breathe, we will begin |
| to make ourselves a clothing, |
| something to last |
| through the eternity of a victorious |
| kiss. |
| |
