I lie among green rocks
on the thyme-scented mountain.
The thistledown clouds and the sky
grey-white and grey-violet
are mirrored in your dark eyes
as in the changing pools of the mountain.
I have made for your head
a wreath of livid crocuses.
How strange they are the wan lilac crocuses
against your dark smooth skin
in the intense black of your wind-towseled hair.
Sleet from the high snowfields
snaps a lash down the mountain
bruising the withered petals
of the last crocuses.
I am alone in the swirling mist
beside the frozen pools of the mountain.
_La Maliciosa_