XXXIII

The Young Budapest Girl

In the warm mist of a young girl’s breath,

I took place.

I withdrew, I did not give up my place.

Her arms weigh nothing. One meets them like water.

Whatever is wilted disappears before her. Only her eyes remain,

Long lovely plants, long lovely flowers growing in our field.

So light an obstacle upon my chest, and how you now lean on me,

How I feel your weight, now that you’re no more.