Almost out of the sky, the half moon
drops anchor between two mountains.
Spinning, wandering night, excavator of eyes.
Let's see how many shattered stars are in the pool.
She makes a cross of mourning on my brow, and flees.
She forges nights of silent struggle from blue metals;
my heart spins like a flywheel out of control.
Girl from so far away, sent from so far away,
her glance sometimes flashes beneath the sky.
Grumbler, tempest, raging maelstrom,
walk across my heart without stopping.
Wind from the tombs carries off, shatters, scatters your drowsy root.
It uproots great trees on the other side of it.
Except for you, fair maiden, misty question, tall flower.
It was she who was fashioning the wind with illuminated leaves.
Behind the mountains of the night, white fire-lily,
ah, I can't say! She was made of everything.
Stabs of longing, you have cut open my breast;
it is time to follow another path, on which she doesn’t smile.
Tempest that buried the bells, confused commotion of storms,
why touch her now, why sadden her.
Oh, to follow the path that leads away from everything,
where anguish, death, winter do not lie in ambush,
peering out amidst the dew.
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