True it is that I still love you
like oceans springing life from beads.
In your hands, my thoughts turn into
scarlet feathers and crooked trees.

Blood effusing from a whale's heart
has painted every corner of the sea.
Love of ancient times, believe, believe
this is why my beak tears apart
the flesh of wounded reveries.

That velvet carcass, that hidden seed,
that spear on fire, that dying crow:
these four pillars of a morning creed
have crackled under the barren snow.

True it is still that I love you
though smoldering hearts will never know
how sacred are your words to me
and how in vain my bleak dreams grow.