O love, O crazy sunbeam and purple premonition,
you come to me and climb your cool stairway,
the castle that time has crowned with fog,
pale walls of a closed heart.
No one else will know that only a delicacy could do it,
building its crystals as strong as a city;
that the blood poured open its sad tunnels, but its strength
never did overpower the winter. Love,
that is why your mouth, your skin, your light, your sadnesses
were all the patrimony of life, the blessed
gift of the rain, of the natural world
that holds and lifts the pregnant seeds,
the secret storm of the wine in the cellars,
the flare of the corn in the soil.