Under the olive trees the light pours out its seeds,
poppies appear and begin to flicker,
burning the oil that feeds their fire;

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder

Rome in November evening many thanks
the smooth marble reef the cold tile-faces
the spray of lights before the gate closes

Whatever comes to pass: you know your time,
my bird, you put on your veil
and fly through the mist to me.

No one jumps off.
For we know only love

Beneath a foreign sky
shadow roses
shadow

When at your back the seagull swoops and cries
the order to sink comes eastward into sight.

Nothing fairer under the sun than to be under the sun…

Who is living down below? Who is crying…
Who has lost his housekey?

Our field is the sky,
tilled by the sweat of motors,
in the face of night,