After my death, from my belly
A forest will swim out,
And I myself will live in that forest.

My kisses will turn into birds,
And I myself will sing
Out of the birds.

I shall don the dress of a gazelle,
A young hunter will see
And think: A gazelle.

But before he pulls his arrow,
Quickly I shall undress in the bed of grass,
And the arrow, taut in the thin bow of my brow,
I shall hurl at the hunter.