I enter the empty cloister. The display of lights is the echo before sundown.
Now everything becomes less skin-deep. My eyes search for the fire, the
slang of the pain below. Dunes and the powerful territory of clouds are the
heaven and earth of the places where we have been happy. I think of your
mint waist, the distance, where an archipelago reigns. We will grow old and
sentimental and clumsy, my love.

Translated by D. Sam Abrams