You move through the mountains like a breeze,
like a quick stream dropping from under the snow:
your hair in its thickness throbs like the high
adornments of the sun, repeating them for me.
All the light of the Caucasus falls across your body
like a little vase, infinitely refractive,
in which the water changes clothes and sings
with every motion of the distant river.
The old warrior road winds through the hills, and, below,
the old army fortifications: the water they hold
in their mineral hands shines fierce as a sword:
till the woods send toward you
suddenly a sprig-a lightning bolt-of a few blue flowers,
the strange-wild arrow of their forest smell.
