Rising from the dead a pure star crosses

over earth and like dust falls on warm bones

under a mantle made of gold, the sun shone

was resuscitated, lived for a day,

to die once again, these are its verses:

 

 

My pious soul calling me to my tomb:

the sparkling light of January stars

that passes through the castle of my chest

enters its ruins where my cold remains

which once voraciously lived are bartered.

Oh magician! filled with truth’s doves, Spirit,

purity, light, tenderness, footless bird

human noise alarms, Oh black-haired lady,

this deadened verse surges in your presence

as the gold sun rises over the dark

sea during the sweet dewed hours pulling

itself over its mantle and gaining

speed, reaches you, descends and paints the earth’s

colossal forms a majestic purple.

 

I kissed your feet and saw you pass, woman,

at last, the earth was perfumed and lighted!

That verse that the hardening of daily

living that wasted ate away at me

and by harsh bits from dried and greedy lips,

were exhaled, triumphant and bubbling.

And like ocean waves over peaceful seas,

the spacious blue sky rolled becoming foam.

Oh magician!  Oh lover magician!