[Rhyme is a woman, trying on clothes]

Rhyme is a woman, trying on clothes,

plaiting a rose into her hair.

She splashes in blood, like a naiad,

and surfaces, when not asked to.

Rhyme is a bell, driving away evil spirits

from the solitary guilty soul,

when the wind in the thistle thickets

weeps during the cold night.

Rhyme is a celestial trumpet—that is,

it rouses me from the grave,

when you come, beloved, with shining eyes,

and kiss me on the lips.

Rhyme is a path bordered by wild strawberries,

now here, now gone—so beats the heart.

I walk but don’t know where,

I distract death with smooth talk.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort