Just as one throws a bunch of violets
Into another’s eyes without a word . . .
*
Just as one slowly sways an acacia,
So its aroma falls like an early dawn
With its white bloom, onto the white keys
Of an opened piano . . .
*
Just as the distant moon weaves
Through her hair, as she stands on the porch,
Arranging into its glowing wreath
Her brow – or adorning it with silver sheaf . . .
*
Just as a talk with her – devoid of meaning,
Is like the swallows’ flight,
Which has an aim, but collides into all,
Foretells the arrival of the thunder
Before the lightning forestalls its beat –
So . . .
. . . yet I’ll say nothing – for I’m full of grief.