Je vouse envoye un bouquet que ma main
                                                      Vient de trier de ces fleurs espanuies
                                                      I read these lines by Ronsard and wrote this:

Flowers? I don’t want flowers!  I will pick

my own from the sky as it cracks across

the mountain cleft,  this weary body

that confines and implants its parts in me

like a hungry snake consuming my soul,

peeking into its dark cave, a black head,

and a wide-smiling red mouth!  Then falling,

under a spell I’m woven and tangled.

I surge as wings sprouting up from my arms

appear across the solemn atmosphere

and my eyes filled with vision soar forward

and for the world they perceive will supply

rivers of light rolling over all men.

Strolling through pleasant gardens there are bards

who pluck small flowers, and while I, love-struck

amidst the shadows, dressed in gigantic

clothes woven of starlight tend my garden

will make a magnificent wreath of stars.

My hand will not shake when seizing the light!

And I will search, my love, where the clouds sleep,

and in the heart of the loveliest one

I will plant it and so light the others

by its aural and vaporous fibers.