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Poem	Your hand, my wonder, is now icy cold. The purest light of the celestial dome has burned me through. And now we are as two still plams lying in darlmess, as two black banks of a frozen stream in the chasm of the world. Our hair combed back is carved in wood, the moon walks over our ebony shoulders. A distant cockcrow, the night goes by, silent. Rich is the rime of love, withered the dowry. Where are you, living in what depths of time, love, stepping down into what waters, now, when the frost of our voiceless lips does not fend off the divine fires? In a forest of clouds, of fcam, and of silver we live, caressing lands under our And we are wielding the might of a dark scepter to earn oblivion. My love, your breast cut through by a clinel knows nothing anymore of what it was. Of clouds at dawn, of angers at daybreak, of shallows in springtime it has no remembrance. And you have led me, as once an angel led Tobias, onto the rusty mashes of Lombardy. But a day came when a sign frightened you, a stinma of golden measure. With a scream, with inunobile fear in your thin hands you fell into a pit that ashes lie over, where neither northern firs nor Italian yews could protect our andent bed of lovers. What was it. what is it, what will it be we filled the world with our cry and calling. The dawn is back, the red moon set, do we know now? In a heavy ship A helmman comes, throws a silken rope and binds w tightly to eaah other, then he pours on friends, once enemies, a handful of snow.
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