She is wind, smoke, leaves,
A white shape, light and restless,
Put between my days and nights—
Between me and my grave.

I am tall ivory bones
Chained to a hill
On which her young breasts bloom,
White daisies after rain.

I will be taken, carried away
In small carved images
And grow yellow and smooth with age.
But she, she who is wind, smoke, leaves,
A white shape, light and restless,
She will be gathered by swift fingers
And buried like flint arrows
in crystal hearts.