In my dreams, I sometimes pair you with those
queens who slowly descend the golden, flowered
stairways of legend; I give you names that are
married with beauty, splendour and gladness, and
that rustle in silken syllables along verses
built as a platform for the dance of words and
their stately pageantries.
But how quickly I tire of the game, seeing you
gentle and wise, and so little like those whose
attitudes men embellish.
Your brow, so shining and pure and white with
certitude, your gentle, childlike hands peaceful
upon your knees, your breasts rising and falling
with the rhythm of your pulse that beats like
your immense, ingenuous heart,
Oh! how everything, except that and your prayer,
oh! how everything is poor and empty, except the
light that gazes at me and welcomes me in your
naked eyes.