I don’t have time enough to celebrate your hair.
One by one I should detail your hairs and praise them.
Other lovers want to live with particular eyes;
I only want to be your stylist.
In Italy they called you Medusa,
because of the high bristling light of your hair.
I call you curly, my tangler,
my heart knows the doorways of your hair.
When you lose your way through your own hair,
do not forget me, remember that I love you.
Don’t let me wander lost-without your hair-
through the dark world, webbed by empty
roads with their shadows, their roving sorrows,
till the sun rises, lighting the high tower of your hair.