Love, we’re going home now,
where the vines clamber over the trellis:
even before you, the summer will arrive,
on its honeysuckle feet, in your bedroom.
Our nomadic kisses wandered over all the world:
Armenia, dollop of disinterred honey–:
Ceylon, green dove–: and the Yang-Tse with its old
old patience, dividing the day from the night.
And now, dearest, we return, across the crackling sea
like two blind birds to their wall,
to their nest in a distant spring:
because love cannot always fly without resting,
our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:
our kisses head back home where they belong.