The trials of being human, the terrible
things they do out of passion, behead you, lock
you in a high tower, fire arrows, break
your quick legs on a wheel—all for the rabble!
In the garden the martyrs make their noble
march with the touching outrage of the meek,
waving their palm fronds high in the air. Look!
They want to be trees! That promises fruitful
salvation: not to die, but to feel birdsongs
trembling your privacy green as Daphne’s
changes. Whoever heard such strange branchings?
Dressed in green desire still my darling climbs
skyward, still reads, still sings her arias,
lovebirds and lovers wreathing in her limbs.